


Feather Light

by inkyrobotsparks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxious Human Disaster Connor, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Edging, Fluff, Human AU, Loneliness, Love Confessions, M/M, Massage, Massage therapist Hank, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Massage, Rimming, Smut, overstimunation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyrobotsparks/pseuds/inkyrobotsparks
Summary: Hank knuckles into a tender knot low near the base of his spine, hard enough to rip a small groan from Connor. It hurts, but as he squeezes out whatever was holding him locked, the pain is replaced by a feeling of profound relief."Do that again," he begs when it feels like Hank might move on from making him feel like his bones are turning to liquid. Hank freezes for a second, then repeats the motion.Connor bites down on a whimper. Then makes an undignified noise when Hank does it again, harder. Hank hums, the sound all warm amusement.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 56
Kudos: 564





	Feather Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is yet another adapted twitter thread. And basically just an extended snippet of self-indulgent, touchy-feely porn. Enjoy, and come yell at me on twitter @inkysparks.

Connor’s been exhausted for weeks. 

Work has been running him entirely ragged, left him wrung out and so tense multiple people have told him he looks like he’s going to snap in half any day now. He’s been drowning in paperwork, which is so much worse than field work somehow, he’s not sure his back has ever hurt this much, and the longer he sits at his desk, staring at the paper and trying not to fold in half with a pained whimper, the harder it becomes. 

Around his birthday, Gavin had given him a gift voucher to a massage place across town as a joke. He’s never been there, and he never does this kind of thing, but as the day winds down, he finds himself staring at the slip of paper he’d tucked into his wallet and nearly forgotten. 

It’s about to expire. 

He chews the inside of his cheek, mulling it over, and finally settles on a decision. It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.

He goes, even though he's nervous and feels self conscious, totally unsure what to expect. Maybe one of those seedy, happy-ending types of places, even though that's the last thing he wants. Especially when he imagines what his masseuse might be like. Now that he thinks about it-he suddenly feels that he'd much rather not be touched at all. The thought makes his skin crawl.

But then he pulls up to the place, and it's clearly classy and expensive. A young, blonde woman at reception tells him to wait for a second, so he does, looking around and settling into a squareish black armchair. The decor is clean, minimalistic, tasteful natural light pouring in through a large window peeking into the waiting area. The air smells faintly of lavender oil, and there’s green plants in the corners.

And then his masseur shows up. Introduces himself as Hank. And Connor feels like he's going to pass out, because he didn't picture  this (aka the walking embodiment of a wet dream, tall and broad and silver-haired, with a bright light in his absolutely perfect blue eyes). He's not entirely sure how he's going to survive it. Just looking at Hank's hands makes his mouth go completely dry. 

Hank, perhaps willfully, misinterprets his silence as he guides him through to a well-lit, warm massage room.

"Nervous?" he asks, and his voice is as low and gravelly in a way that makes something uncomfortably hot settle in the pit of Connor’s stomach.

"Little bit," Connor squeaks, then clears his throat. 

"Don't worry," Hank rumbles. His eyes are warm, amused but in a good-natured way. It puts Connor slightly at ease. "I'll take good care of you."

Connor has to concentrate on not tripping over his feet.

Hank offers him privacy and gentle instructions to strip and lie down. Connor hurries through it, breathing shaky. Once. He's going to do this exactly once, then leave, then never come back. It's embarrassing enough without his inappropriate arousal mingling with the fear and anticipation and everything else.

When Hank comes back, Connor is ready. He's lying facedown, eyes tightly shut, a towel draped modestly over his hips. He's too warm, especially when Hank speaks again. He can hear him shuffling around, opening a bottle of lu- massage oil.

"This your first time?"

"Yeah," Connor croaks. Hank hmmms under his breath. Connor can hear him rubbing his hands together to warm the oil. 

"I'll start slow," he says. "I just want you to try and relax at first. If anything hurts, or anything feels bad, if you want to stop at all, just say so, alright?"

Connor swallows hard

"Yeah," he says weakly. It all sounds intimidating all over again, and his nervousness is returning double force now that he's not looking at Hank. The little gut-punch of arousal is fading rapidly, which is definitely for the best, but -

Hank touches his shoulder. Connor bites the inside of his cheek. He's not even moving, but it's like his hand is six times hotter than Connor's cooled skin. It burns like a brand, but people generally don't want to lean into one of those. He very much wants to lean into this.

"There. Alright?" Hank asks. He's smoothing his hand slowly over Connor's shoulders, then down the dip of his spine.

Connor shudders. His hands are slick, but it doesn't stop him from feeling the roughness of his calluses, a little spark of warm friction. "Yes. This is fine."

Hank hums again, low and thoughtful. "Stressful job?" he asks sympathetically, still repeating that lovely, soothing motion, oiling up Connor's back but not to a point where it feels gross.

"M'cop," he mumbles. "Stressful is an understatement."

"I can tell," Hank says, a soft laugh in his voice. Connor tries not to focus on his voice. Or his hands, which doesn't leave him with a lot to think about. It's just, Hank is thorough, and gentle, and asks a few more questions about what hurts, what needs fixing, and Connor's not sure how to indicate everything. It's sort of overwhelming, especially since after putting Connor at ease with being touched like this, Hank adopts a drastically different style. Connor has to bite back a groan when his fingers ruthlessly attack the stubborn knots in his back.

It  hurts . Connor's pretty sure it's supposed to, but it still chases away the relaxed, soupy feeling he was starting to sink into like a pillow at the end of a long day. But even through the dull throbs of pain, a part of him registers that Hank is somehow even stronger than he looks. He's usually much better at controlling his thought process, but he can't help wondering how it would feel to have those hands press him down for different reasons. Say, into the bed. One hand low on the small of his back, the other on his-

"You carry a lot of tension here."

Hank's voice is quiet. His hands drift lower, like he's reading Connor's mind. Connor doesn't like it one bit. Or he wouldn't, if between the agonizing squeezes and rolls, Hank's hands didn't rest quite so warmly on his skin.

Then Hank digs into a particularly painful spot. Connor yelps sharply with a thread of outrage. Hank just makes an apologetic shushing sound, rubbing the place it possibly hurts worst. The pain spreads out, bit then begins to fade into a faint prickle.

"You have to take better care of your body," Hank says. Connor feels chastised, chagrined even, which is silly. After this is over, he's leaving. And not coming back.

"I'm fine," he says automatically. "Nothing a long bath won't fix."

"Did you ever suffer a leg injury?"

Connor blinks. "Yes? A long time ago. Why?"

"It's like dominoes," Hank explains, knuckling into another knot. "Throw one thing out of whack, and the rest follows. Did you do PT?"

"Yeah," Connor says on a groan. "It sucked."

Hank places a heavy hand on the back of his calf and kneads it carefully. Connor's breath hitches. "I bet. You're wound so tight it's a wonder they didn't snap you in half." His tone is critical, but his fingers are doing something so magical to the back of Connor's knee and thigh, rolling out a tension he had no idea he'd been holding, Connor lapses into stunned silence. The touch also has the side effect of making him instantly rock hard. Hank is just loosening the overworked muscles and tendons in his leg, but he's digging into places no one's touched in years, and Connor feels every bit of it. It's relaxing, but it's also torture. 

It's fine he thinks, as long as he stays exactly where he is and does not roll over under any circumstances.

Under Hank's firm instructions to relax, Connor makes another attempt at emptying his head. It's by no means easy, but he's also finding it more difficult to focus. When Hank firmly kneads the place where his buttock meets his thigh, he can't quite help the strangled noise that escapes him. It's - not a moan, no, but something perhaps uncomfortably close to it.

Hank just ignores it, of course, keeps up that clinical treatment. It doesn't matter. He could be made entirely of stone, and Connor is pretty sure he'd still melt.

"Very good," he says, briefly squeezing the back of Connor's neck. "Isn't it nice to unwind a little?" The firm press of his hands gentles into something that turns the burn into a distant, tingly kind of ache.

Connor closes his eyes. He feels heavy, sort of floaty, and despite the continuous swirl of arousal, he's also becoming quite relaxed. He refuses to call the way Hank is kneading his shoulders, then his hands, then his palms, sensual. That's what it is though, he thinks distantly. There's no other word for this kind of careful attention, the way it makes the rest of the world fade into a dull, insignificant hum. Or the way it sometimes shoots through him like a bolt of electricity, pooling in his stomach. It's very nice, he thinks as he dozes. Very nice indeed.

He wakes - God knows how much later. He feels warm and soft and a little damp. The lights are low. His eyes won't quite open. There's a hand resting low on his spine, warming him like a hot water bottle.

Memory violently returns. He twitches, like he means to get up, but the hand is suddenly higher and keeps him gently pinned.

"Woah now. Slow down, okay? Don't want you falling over from getting up too quick."

Connor huffs, embarrassed. His cheeks warm. He sits up slowly, with Hank's patient guidance. Hastily wipes at his face, because he's drooled a little as the unfortunate result of his little nap.

He's almost miffed that he missed out on any part of this, but he feels - better than he has in years, actually. He apologies hastily, but Hank holds up his hand.

"It's a compliment," he says firmly. "And frankly, you needed it."

Then he shoots Connor a lopsided smile that punches the breath right out of him and makes him quickly scramble to make sure the sheet is covering everything. Hank leaves him alone to dress, then brings him back a glass of water. Connor sips it, feeling still off-kilter.

He leaves Hank a generous tip. And then, despite the heart attack he nearly has at the price tags, he books another appointment for a full-body massage next week. 

He can't afford to make it a regular thing. But a few more times - it's not creepy, he's just - so, so stressed, and work is and always has been A Lot, and if he could do this just a few more times - he deserves to, damn it. He deserves to relax, for once. And he can control his dick nest time. Think of dead baby animals or something. It's worth it, if the trade-off is being to absolutely melt in Hank's very capable hands. It'll be worth it. He was just... Taken by surprise the first time. There's no need for this to be awkward again.

*

... It's awkward again.

Not for lack of trying. Connor takes a long, cold shower before he leaves the house next time, and despite the general lack of desire to, squeezes out an unenthusiastic orgasm as a precaution. He throws on loose-fitting clothing. If he wears a splash of cologne, it's only because  he likes how it smells, and no other reason.

He keeps his mind firmly on boring, unsexy things. Paint drying. Taxes. The relentless passage of time and the inexorable, monotonous march towards death.

It almost works. Then Hank invites him into the massage room, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, silver hair tied back in a messy bun at the back of his head, and Connor's efforts rapidly go down the drain. To make matters worse, the scented oils evoke some kind of pavlovian response in him. It's almost enough to make him back out.

Almost.

Because, he's nervous all over again, but then he looks at Hank's hands, and can't bring himself to walk out the door.

Hank has him lie facedown. He hums softly, then apologizes when he catches himself at it. Connor tells him not to worry about it. Mostly because the combination of cinnamon and lavender, of warm pressure on his spine, and the low, gravelly sound of Hank's voice is doing things to him. Lulling him maybe, but into a trance more than sleep.

"Rough week?"

Connor sighs softly. "Mostly desk work again."

Hank knuckles into a tender knot low near the base of his spine, hard enough to rip a small groan from Connor. It hurts, but as he squeezes out whatever was holding him locked, the pain is replaced by a feeling of profound relief. "Do that again," he begs when it feels like Hank might move on from making him feel like his bones are turning to liquid. Hank freezes for a second, then repeats the motion.

Connor bites down on a whimper. Then makes an undignified noise when Hank does it again, harder. Hank hums, the sound all warm amusement. "Desk work can really fu- screw you up."

Connor shakes with quiet laughter. "It's okay, you're allowed to swear. My delicate, virgin ears can take it."

Hank laughs, deep and husky, which immediately extinguishes Connor's amusement. Something warm pools at the base of his spine in its place.

"Well, thank fuck," Hank says, deadpan. "I've never been good at this whole 'be appropriate' thing."

Connor's mind helpfully informs him of several inappropriate things he could suggest. He clears his throat. "You don't need to be," he says on what he hopes sounds like a playful whine. "Your hands are made of concentrated magic. Who cares about anything else?"

Hank chuckles. "Wouldn't go that far."

"I would," Connor says fervently.

"Mhm. How's your leg?"

"Oh. It's fine. It's been fine for a long time," Connor says, sleepy.

Hank tuts sceptically. Then squeezes Connor's hip with one hand, pressing into the tender tissue in his thigh with the other, finding muscle that feels - sore, almost like it's inflamed. Connor flinches. 

“Sorry 'bout that," Hank says, easing up a bit, trying to soothe the burn away. "This part's not supposed to be this painful."

Connor winces. It's painful, but he can almost feel the edge of relief again. "No, don't stop. Last week - it was nice. After."

Hank hums. "'M'kay. If it gets too much, you let me know, okay? And try to relax. You're tensing up on me."

He punctuates this by rubbing Connor's back in a soothing little motion, then goes to work on his thigh. The touch feels white-hot for a while, but after a bit, fades into dullness. It's the same kind of ache you get with a sore tooth. It hurts, more so when it's prodded, but it still seems to bring some form of relief. 

Connor's minds swims while Hank works the tension and heat out of his muscles, gritting his teeth against it. He doesn't notice until the pain truly fades into nothing that Hank is very firmly and skillfully doing something to Connor's thigh and the connected buttock, and that now that it isn't painful, it's just very - it's very relaxing. Which feels like an odd thing to think. Connor wants to sink into that warm feeling close to sleep again, and he's almost there, but there's enough of him still awake to be too aware of Hank's hands on his ass. He feels creepy of liking it as much as he does, but not enough to make it stop. It's nice. Hank is strong, his hands are big - all of him is big, probably everywhere, but Connor tries not to think about that because it's rapidly making lying flat on the massage table very uncomfortable.

His hands drift higher to take care of Connor's shoulders.

"Better?"

"Mhrm."

A laugh, quiet and low. "If you'd like to sleep, you can." His voice dips lower. "I'll take care of you."

And fuck, fuck if that doesn't send all of Connor's blood suddenly south. He sighs shakily. "Nah. I have to get my money's worth, right? Better pay attention."

"If you prefer," Hank says noncommittally. "At any rate, we should probably flip you over."

Connor freezes. "Uh."

Hank launches into a detailed, surely very educational explanation of all the muscles he wants to poke and prod on Connor's front. Connor is only half listening. "I need a moment," he says by way of apology, because his erection is stubbornly refusing to flag.

"Take your time. Would you like some water?"

"Yes," Connor rasps, grateful for the distraction.

"Don't be afraid to ask," Hank says, retreating into a side room. Connor takes a shaky breath and sits up, trying to breathe, to fill his lungs with cool air. He bunches up the towel rather strategically in his lap and tries to calm the racing of his heart. Tries to focus on the twinges of pain as opposed to the memory of Hank's warm hands.

It's not very effective. Especially since, when Hank comes back, Connor is no longer plastered facedown to the bed, but sitting on the edge of it. And therefore  significantly closer to his face, and to the warm blue of his eyes.

He sighs quietly as he's handed the glass and gulps down the water. It's very cold, and hits him like a kick in the gut, but it's refreshing.

Hank touches his bare shoulder, which negates his efforts to calm down all over again. Connor's  entirely in love with this man's hands. "More?"

"No. Thank you."

Hank smiles. "Why don't you lie down, then?"

Connor shifts uneasily. "Yes. Right."

Hank pats the bed for him. Connor sighs, a flush crawling up his cheeks. He's embarrassed enough that it mitigates the problem a bit, but he still feels the need to apologize as he lies down. Hank hmmms, confused, then catches Connor's eye, reading his very apparent chagrin.

He clears his throat, lips quirking. "Nothing to worry about. Happens a lot." Then he wraps his fingers around Connor's ankle, nonchalant as ever.

"Of course it happens a lot," Connor wheezes. 

Hank's eyebrows go up a fraction, but he doesn't say anything else, just digs a thumb into the arch of Connor's foot.

Connor chokes, head thumping back against the bed. He's thankful the towel over his hips is thick and relatively heavy. It's not as concealing as he would've liked - not by a long shot - but it could always be worse.

He tries to keep that at the forefront of his mind. Thankfully, Hank is professional about all of this. He focuses on the task at hand, and chats idly to keep Connor distracted. The problem is, Connor's always had a tendency to fixate. And right now Hank is - he knows, knows this is just Hank's job, and that's what he's doing (albeit remarkably well) - but he's touching him so soothingly, his hands warm, insistent, gentle, and Connor feels - cared for. Which is maybe just a little pathetic, but it's difficult to care right now. This is just - intimate, and pleasant, and lulling all over again, even though Hank moving his way up from his feet should set him literally ablaze.

It does. But it also puts him to sleep again. Not for very long, and there's a part of him that drifts, half-aware, cataloging the feeling of Hank's hands on his legs, then his stomach, his chest, eventually his shoulders. He cracks his eyes open then, sees Hank bent over him as he squeezes the stiffness out of his neck. Connor sighs. He'd happily let Hank wrap his fingers around Connor's throat. There's something so ridiculously trustworthy about those eyes.

Not that he would. He's so careful not to do anything that could be interpreted as threatening or unpleasant or constraining. His fingers brush a fair scar on Connor's collarbone. Connor almost expects him to ask, but he doesn't.

Connor closes his eyes again. Everything is swimming in a soft, fuzzy soup. "Should do this again," he slurs. "S'very nice.

"You should," Hank responds earnestly. Connor thinks about that. About being back every week, letting Hank put his hands on him just like this, all the time. He should be disturbed by how soothed the thought makes him feel. It's not real intimacy or connection. It shouldn't make him feel this safe. Or maybe it should. Maybe that's the point. Either way, he doesn't want to let go of it anytime soon.

When their session ends, Hank has to help him sit up. He feels limp, a little dizzy, but it's easier with Hank's offered shoulder to brace himself against. Hank pats his back. "Take your time," he says, right next to Connor's ear. "There's so rush."

Maybe not, but Connor feels like he's on the verge of hyperventilating anyway. He straightens up. "I'm alright. Thank you."

Hank squeezes his shoulders. "Alright. Just take it easy, okay?"

Connor's heart clenches oddly. "Sure."

"There's a good boy," Hank says, all playful grin and warm light in his eyes. He steps away wipes his hands on a clean towel.

Connor stares at his shoulders, feeling coming back to his limbs more properly.

He makes another appointment. 

They become a regular thing. More or less, anyway. The next time he goes, Connor is so exhausted it takes him all of five minutes to fall asleep. He wakes up to Hank's hand on his back, twenty minutes after his session was meant to have ended, feeling relaxed but mortified. Hank assures him once again, that it's no big deal, and rubs the spot between his shoulders a little while longer. Connor breathes shallowly through the contact. It feels - tender, and gentle, and it's so unfamiliar to him, except when it comes from Hank. No one's ever  gentle . 

He wants to pay extra for Hank's time, but Hank adamantly refuses, because he's the one that let Connor sleep that long in the first place. He smiles as he says it. As if he means it.

The next time, Connor makes an effort to stay awake. That's much worse for his blood pressure. He has to bite down on the sounds trying to leave him, and he's sure Hank can tell, even if he's studiously ignoring it. Connor supposed that's part of the job description, and he's grateful, even if sometimes he thinks Hank lingers, listens when he thinks something feels good. The result is that the sessions get progressively  better as Hank learns to read him, which hadn't felt possible at all. But they do, and it's equal parts wonderful and terrible. 

Especially when Connor realizes he can't keep this up forever. A long, quality massage is expensive. He's doing alright for himself, but not enough to come see Hank as often as he'd like. It's for the best, actually. He's gotten too used to his voice. His presence. They've started chatting more lately, and Connor's unfortunate attraction has morphed into a proper crush. 

He can't bring himself to end things. For an hour a week, he gets to feel taken care of, and - well, less lonely, honestly. To say nothing of the fact that he's been generally feeling - lighter, less tense, sleeping better. The ache in his knee fades with every appointment. He tells Hank as much the next time he sees him. Hank gives him one of those sweet, fond smiles.

"That's the point, kid. Good things happen when you take care of yourself."

"You're the one doing it," Connor mumbles. "You get the majority of the credit."

Hank just shakes his head. He has Connor undress, as always, and uses the sandalwood massage oils. They're Connor’s favorite.

He's also particularly firm, kneading the soreness of the old injury out of him, paying particular attention to the stiffer areas - which - as luck would have it, are mostly his hips, thighs, and his ass.

And it's awfully easy like this, to wonder how it would feel to have his hips pinned down just like this in a very different context, and how nice it might be to hear the low growl of Hank's voice then. 

It's funny, because Hank's touched him more thoroughly than any person ever had in Connor's life, and all he can think like this is how much he wants more.

When Hank's fingers brush accidentally against his inner thigh, Connor bites down on a sharp whine and jolts. "Sorry," Hank says quickly.

"It's fine," Connor manages, painfully hard against the bed. He does  not say 'do that again'. Oh, but he wants to. He really, really wants to. He can still feel the echo of that touch.

It doesn't fade, not even much later. When he goes home that evening, he wraps his fingers around himself and finds he's woefully aware of how inadequate his own hand feels. He thinks of how much better it would be with Hank, his much larger, rougher hands, his warm body curled over Connor's, his voice, his smell. 

Afterwards he feels both wrung out and dissatisfied, and on top of that, ashamed. He's a hundred percent certain that if Hank knew about these little fantasies, he'd kick Connor out for good. And rightly so, probably. Probably.

It still doesn't stop him from calling again. The routine is too good. Hank is too kind, and, well, if Connor imagines nosing into his hair and kissing the sweat off his neck a little too often, that can be his burden to bear.

It's comfortable, even when it's uncomfortable. Hank is warm and steady. Easy to trust. Sometimes he lets Connor sleep much longer than he should, and Connor wakes to him rubbing his shoulders lightly, and sometimes reading nearby, with a warm towel draped over his back to keep him cozy. He never wants a bigger tip, only wants to make sure Connor doesn't mind. In case he has someplace to be.

It's the most rested Connor ever gets. He doesn't tell Hank why. It's not the sort of thing you say out loud, anyway. Hank just makes him feel safe. Connor's nightmares never seem to find him like this.

Occasionally, when he wakes with a start - Hank is there, reminding him where he is.

For a while, it feels like things are bound to stay like this forever. Comfortable, if not fully satisfying, but good.

It doesn't start changing until the one night, when Connor comes by after a particularly stressful three weeks. He'd had to move their session, and it's been a frustrating time aside from that, anyway. It's the first time he goes to Hank in a sour mood, antsy and angry and God knows what. He doesn't snap, but he doesn't want to talk, so he's more brusque than he really wanted. Hank seems to take it in stride, at least until he walks in after Connor's disrobed. He makes an odd noise in the back of his throat.

"Sweetheart, what happened?"

A cool, dry hand touches Connor's back. Connor twitches, then groans because he's forgotten. It's been a few days. "Had a bit of a fight," he manages. "Suspect got the drop on me. Threw me off a roof."

"A  roof ?"

"Not a very long drop," Connor amends, but winces. He's sure the bruising looks worse than it is, but - "I'm sorry. I forgot."

Hank sighs sharply. Connor just wants to bury his face in some kind of pillow and rest. Preferably with Hank's hands on his back.

Hank touches his shoulder. His side is sore and achy, although it's a dull kind of pain. The bruising is extensive, but the skin was intact. Maybe-

"I have to be careful with this," Hank says after a moment of silence. "I shouldn't be massaging this at all. Actually we should probably put today off, reschedule-"

"No," Connor whines, pulse jumping. It's already been so long. "Maybe just. Just something else then."

Hank makes another unhappy noise, his fingers drifting over sore skin, barely touching. "Okay, but - we have to take it easy today, alright? This needs to heal."

"That's fine," Connor says, barely concealing his disappointment. Hank touching him is always nice, but the deep tissue massage is definitely his favorite. It's more relaxing than anything else. Always leaves him feeling like he'd left his body and gone for a little walk without it for a while.

"Hang on. I'll be right back." Hank says, his voice gruff. Connor just nods.

When he comes back, he places a hand between Connor's shoulders. "You've seen a doctor about this?"

"Yeah," Connor says, a little impatient. It sneaks into his voice "It's not a big deal, Hank. Just some bruises." His side had taken the brunt of the damage. 

"And has it occurred to you," Hank says, cooler than Connor's heard him in a while. Maybe ever, "that if you'd fallen any harder, or more on your back, you could be dealing with a debilitating spine injury right now?"

Connor flushes. He feels like he's being scolded. Ridiculous. "This is my job," he huffs. "Shit happens."

There's a short, cold silence. "Right."

For a second, Connor thinks he's fucked up. That he's about to finally get the boot, and oh, the irony of it being over anything other than his rampant horniness would be too much. But Hank just silently reaches for some tingling herbal paste that's supposed to speed up healing and dull the pain, and rubs it very gingerly into Connor's back.

And it's just - not enough. Connor needs to be  touched . Something about this feels terrible, makes him feel -

He springs up so suddenly it takes Hank by surprise, but Connor doesn't care. He's too close to hyperventilating. "I can't. I can't. I'm sorry, Hank, just - don't-"

"Hey. Hey, slow down," Hank says, warm and concerned again, and something in Connor's chest fissures sharply. Hank catches his upper arms and squeezes, gentle but firm. Connor folds like a paper airplane, finds himself suddenly curled into Hank's broad chest. There's a hand at his back, heavy and grounding, and a nose in his hair. "Deep breaths, Connor. That's it. That's very good."

Connor tries to obediently breathe through whatever is gripping his chest. It's like that, sometimes, after a particularly long week, but there's usually no one there to witness it. Hank just lets Connor squeeze the living daylights out of him as he tries to calm himself. It's not efficient and it's not pretty, and Connor feels like a disaster when he finally peels himself away, still shaky but at least more himself, even though his chest feels tight.

He can't look at Hank, but he thinks he doesn't need to.

"I'm sorry about this," he breathes. "I guess today was just not a good day. I - I'll come back another time. I'll - I'll call you." Which is bullshit. He's not going to call. He's already made a fool of himself, and he's already so far beyond 'too attached.' It's going to be more disastrous the longer it goes on. 

"Just hang on, " Hank says, still gripping him tight by the arms. "I swear to Christ, if I didn't have you here once a week you'd never stop moving." His tone is frustrated, fond, and just - very Hank. Connor draws another steadying breath. "Slow down, Connor."

And the way his voice drops at that, combined with the way Hank is holding on to him, sends a full-body shiver through him. He lets Hank drag him a little closer. Leans into his shoulder.

He smells like sandalwood, incense, oranges. He feels like he's five degrees warmer. "I'm sorry," Hank says, the apology stark and genuine in his voice. "Are you - how are you feeling?"

Connor almost laughs at his careful avoidance of the question 'are you okay.' It's just as well.

"Sore," he says. "Tired. Don't be sorry. It's not your fault I'm high-strung."

Hank cups the back of his neck, keeps Connor against his shoulder. Something in Connor's brain sadly twinges out something about professional boundaries.

"You need a rest," Hank says, low and warm. "Would you like to lie back down?"

Connor slips out of his grip and flops down. He closes his eyes, mostly because he's embarrassed, but somewhat because they just won't open. "Bet I'm a sight for sore eyes."

He thinks he hears Hank say a quiet 'you are', but abruptly decides he's hearing things. Wishful thinking, is what it is. Just wishful thinking. 

"I'm just worried about you," Hank says on a sigh, shifting to sit on the edge of the table next to Connor's hip. "Will you tell me what you need? I want you to have this time. Anything you want."

Connor blinks at him. His cheeks turn a shade darker. There's a myriad of things he wants to say, but most of them shouldn't be said. He settles for something close to the truth.

"I think I'd like to sleep," he confesses quietly. "But I'm not sure I can, without you - you always -"

"Right," Hank says sympathetically. "I don't want to make the bruising worse," he says. "But if you let me lay a cool towel over it, I'll see what I can do to make you relax. Are you comfortable on your back at all?"

Connor winces. "I'm not sure. I've been sleeping on my stomach these last few days."

Hank tsks softly. "Let's keep it that way, then." His eyes roam over Connor's body, taking in the damage. "How many bones did you break?"

Connor chuckles despite himself. "No broken bones. Maybe one cracked rib."

Hank seems to stiffen. "You know you're incredibly lucky, right?"

Connor exhales sharply. He doesn't really want to lie facedown right now, but he does it anyway. He wants to be good. "I know."

Hank touches his neck and squeezes. Gently at first, but the pressure of his grip builds and builds until Connor feels like a kitten held by the scruff. It's right at the edge of almost-painful, and it's the best thing Connor's felt in weeks. He can't really help the sharp, relieved sound he makes.

Hank leans over him, his other hand going up to squeeze Connor's shoulders. His breath is in Connor's hair. "Try to relax for me."

"I'm relaxed," Connor wheezes, shuddering again under the pressure of his grip. It hits him, not for the first time, but still like a ton of bricks. Hank is  strong .

He also ignores the blatant lie, hands drifting to find another spot that's safe to touch. "Take deep breaths."

Connor tries. It's difficult to keep them consistent though, because Hank does the thing where he follows the hitches in Connor's breathing to find the exact thing he needs to do to bring tears to his eyes. His chest heaves with the effort of trying to contain himself. 

Hank breathes, and it stirs Connor's hair. "Don't hold back on my account. I know this feels nice. Let it be nice."

Connor laughs shakily. Then whines when Hank's thumb bites into his shoulder. "Fuck."

Hank laughs quietly. "Just like that."

Connor huffs. Then sighs when Hank pauses for a second to touch the bruised skin on his ribs. His hand is warm, light but not feather-light. "Let me do something for this before I get ahead of myself. Keep the swelling down."

"Okay."

"Keep breathing for me. Nice and deep, Connor."

It's not a request this time, but a quiet order. He can't not obey, so he takes a couple of steadying breaths and waits for Hank to come back with some cold towels. He shivers when Hank places them on his sore skin, and then again when Hank's fingers card into his hair. "Oh."

"Relax. It's been too long," Hank mutters, soft and soothing. "You've been pushing yourself, haven't you?"

Connor hums. Hank rubs his shoulders, his neck, then behind his ears, and Connor groans quietly because  holy shit .

"There we go. Very good," Hank says. Connor is suddenly beyond registering any words though. He feels like he's melting, and like his brain might leak out of his ears if Hank doesn't stop soon.

Connor wouldn't want him to either way.

Hank stays carefully away from the bruising, but he's not shy with touching. It's just what Connor needs. There's a subtle, cold pressure against his injuries from the compress, and Hank pretty much everywhere else. Almost. It's almost enough. And all the stress starts bleeding out of Connor like he's sprung a leak. He can't believe he's waited so long. 

"Thank you, Hank," he manages when he feels he can draw a breath.

Hank's hand comes to a pause low on the small of his back. "Don't thank me," he says, and it's not a request.

"Why not?"

Hank is silent. His fingers trace a firm circle into his spine.

"Why not, Hank?"

"Because I asked nicely," he says, but there's no bite to it. It's a voice that matches the blue of his eyes. Maybe it should be icy, but all it does is fill Connor with its warmth.

He sighs, relaxing into the feeling of Hank's hands. It takes him a bit to notice, or maybe imagine - that there's a different quality to his touch. Something not always there, though he can't put his finger on it. Something nice though. It's very nice. Maybe feels a touch more personal. Like Hank is touching  him and not just a bundle of muscles and tendons in front of him. 

For once, he lets himself imagine it. What it might be like, to not pay for this feeling but to come home at the end of a long day to the same kind of soothing presence, a touch that's affectionate and kind, perhaps not intended to arouse but no less warming for it. It's not good that Hank's face is the first one his imagination conjures, but that doesn't stop him. It's hard to picture it in his own apartment though. It feels like he wouldn't fit. His space at home is tiny, cramped, entirely devoid of personality. 

An ugly part of his brain reminds him that it suits  Connor just fine. Besides. He's hardly there anyway.

"Hey," Hank reprimands him. "I can still hear you thinking."

Connor sighs. This isn't - it's not quite enough to shut his brain down the way their sessions usually do. He's on the frustrating edge of some peace, but not quite there. "Sorry. My mind's just in a knot."

"Wanna talk about it?"

Connor considers this. Then laughs. "I'm not sure." There's things he doesn't want to think about, let alone say. "I think not."

"Okay."

"I'm just. Long day, you know? In my line of work you see things you can't - get out of your head sometimes, and I-"

"You don't have to explain," Hank says, smoothing his hand up and down Connor's back, too light to be satisfying. "I get it."

Connor smiles. "I think I'd rather you didn't. It's okay if you don't. It's good. This isn't a nice feeling."

Hank's movements slow. He runs his fingers through Connor's hair again, rubbing his scalp gently. "I was an EMT for five years, and a paramedic for... longer."

Connor shifts too look up at him, a little too quickly. He gives Connor a tight-lipped smile, but his eyes are clear, bluer than an August sky, and - understanding.

Hank nudges him, trying to get him to lie flat again, but Connor can't look away from his face for a long while. When he lies back down, he feels like something important's just slotted into place. The noise in his head dies down as Hank tugs on his hair, pushing for nothing except Connor's acquiescence. He's not sure when that became an easy thing to give.

His breathing deepens, and as he drifts closer to a place somewhere near sleep, he realizes it's  not his imagination. It can't be. There's a slow, deliberate tenderness to what Hank is doing. He lingers, lets the pads of his fingers graze Connor's skin, light and sensitizing. It occurs to him that he has very little to lose like this. He's half asleep, fuzzy with it, and surely Hank wouldn't fault him for - nudging a little closer, seeking the comforting warmth of his hands. So he sighs, and tips just a little bit into his touch, head heavy. He's ready to blink sleepily up at Hank and flinch away with a quick apology if need be. Perhaps he should've known better, because Hank hums, all approval, and scratches behind Connor's ear like he's a puppy.

Connor no longer has the restraint to bite down on his soft whine. He shivers, and Hank cups the back of his head. "Easy," he soothes. "Are you warm enough?"

"Yeah," Connor whispers, something hot and bright leaping through him like static.

"How's your back?"

"Better."

Hank exhales slowly through his nose, like he's gathering his thoughts. "Connor..."

Connor shifts a little again, slightly closer. He should care that it crosses a line, and - he does, he doesn't want to make Hank uncomfortable - but he also can't bring himself to think or want anything else. "Mhm."

Hank brushes a lock of hair back from his face. "Have you got someone at home? To take care of you tonight?"

Connor blinks up at him owlishly, briefly thrown off by the question. "No."

Hank sighs, like this upsets him. "You should have someone."

"I manage fine on my own."

Hank's brow furrows. He looks away. "I know you do. I just..." He trails off. Doesn't finish, just takes a great big breath and shakes his head. Then reaches out for Connor's hand.

Connor has a tiny heart attack before he realizes Hank just wants to massage it.

He bites back another soft groan. "I keep telling you not to hold back," Hank says, lips quirking. "Keep breathing for me, sweetheart."

Connor squeezes his eyes shut. "Right. Yes."

"Is it hard to relax like this?"

Connor hrmphs. "No. Well, yes, but - not by a lot. I just prefer it when you can-"

He swallows dryly, and his face heats.

Hank nods though, as if he hadn't just cut off mid-sentence. "You like a firmer touch."

"Yes" Connor says right as Hank presses gently between his fingers. It comes out more unsteady than he'd intended.

Hank is silent for a few minutes, but he takes his time kneading the soreness from Connor's palms. When Connor chances another glance at him, there's a thoughtful look on his face. It's almost distracted, like he's only half-paying attention to making Connor slowly unravel. But then he meets Connor's eyes again, his focus suddenly razor-sharp and zeroed in on his face. 

He doesn't stop touching, but he doesn't look away, either, and Connor finds himself locked in place, like a bird in the coils of a snake, unable (and unwilling) to escape. It's almost hypnotic, and sends another pulse of tentative arousal through his limbs. He wants to - crawl into Hank's lap, maybe. Feel his hands all over his skin as he wraps around him. Or maybe - just more of this, but closer, Hank's lips and beard pressed to Connor's neck. He wants the intimacy of it so badly it hurts. It's been far, far too long since Connor has felt any kind of wanted, even the idea of it feeds something hungry lurking behind his ribs, even if it isn't real.

Because it wouldn't be, even if Hank wanted him.

"Hey." Hank nudges his cheek with the backs of his knuckles. "You were getting lost on me." His gaze is still warm, although his hand's moved to rest low on Connor's spine again.

"Sorry."

Hank gives him an oddly intense stare. "I want to distract you. None of that thinking."

"Right."

Hank shifts closer, rubs his fingers through Connor's curls, rough enough to make his eyes roll back in his head. The pressure at his back increases too, makes Hank's grip feel heavier than lead. Connor sucks in a sharp breath. He shifts uncomfortably. "That hurt?" Hank asks, ever-watchful.

"No," Connor breathes. He's not particularly interested in explaining that it makes him want to rut into the clean sheets underneath him. He's not sure it would go over well.

"Relax."

"Easy for you to say," Connor mutters. 

Hank chuckles. "That's why you're here though, isn't it? Try. Tell me what you need, Connor."

Connor almost chokes on air, because what he  needs right now is to be fucked into next week. 

"You don't want to hear what I need," he says. A poor attempt at a joke. Hank evidently thinks so too, because he doesn't laugh. He does, however, drag his fingers firmly through Connor's hair again. Connor's vision whites out.

"If I didn't want to know," Hank says, carefully enunciating his words, his voice almost a growl. "I wouldn't have asked."

Connor's thoughts scatter away like a pack of spooked squirrels, his throat and his mouth dry. "I can't."

Hank sighs. Rubs the spot behind Connor's ear again. "Have you ever just - let someone do this for you? Let someone take care of everything?"

Connor's breathing shallows. Hank's hand wanders, resting on his thigh, then fingers tickling the back of Connor's knee. Connor stops breathing altogether.

"It doesn't have to be me," Hank says, almost idly, his touch still there, still maddening. Connor tries to gather up the remains of his self-control. "It doesn't have to be me, but it should be somebody. You deserve a rest." His hand is burning against Connor's skin. The room is so quiet, and dark, Connor can hear his own breathing - and Hank's.

It's a little fast. It makes everything feel like a distant, foggy dream. And he feels suddenly fragile, like the smallest thing might shatter him. It doesn't matter, either, because he sort of wants to be broken. It's just, Hank. Hank. That's the only thing he wants. But he wants it to be real, and he can't if it's like this.

"Hank,  please ."

Hank freezes, but his fingers twitch slightly. His throat clicks.

Connor shifts, rolls to his side so he can look up properly. His face feels like it's on fire. "I don't want anyone else."

Hank's shuttered look turns into something softer. Connor looks away, lashes low. 

Hank exhales slowly. Then reaches to cup Connor’s cheek, a gesture that doesn’t feel like the sort of thing one does for a client at all. “What do you need, honey?” he asks again, and this time his voice is low and sweet enough that there can be no doubt regarding his intentions. 

Connor’s eyes drift shut. “Just touch me.“

Hank laughs. Traces the seam of Connor’s mouth with his thumb. “I’ve been touching you for over a hour. Weeks actually. You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that.”

Connor feels a brief, fierce urge to bite him.  “Distract me. Or are you all talk?”

Hank grips his chin. Just a little on the edge of too-hard again. “Mmm. Still not specific enough.”

Connor does bite him then, lightly. Hank freezes. His hand tastes bitter and floral, like lavender and cedar. Connor is not usually forward with this sort of thing. He doesn’t want to be, either, but Hank had asked, and - Connor doesn’t have it in him to ask himself what comes later. Right now what matters is that Hank, somehow, seems to want this too. Maybe because Connor’s a client -

But somehow, Connor’s stupid heart has decided not to think so.

“Help me relax,” he asks, breathless. “Please, Hank. I just want your hands everywhere.”

“Everywhere, huh? That can be arranged.”

“Hank.”

“Yes?”

“ Everywhere .”

Hank’s eyes warm. “I know. Relax, Connor.”

He presses Connor down, the hand between his shoulder blades gentle but unyielding. Connor sighs, wiggles slightly and finds that Hank's not really letting him move. 

Warmth pools somewhere low in his stomach. Explodes into fireworks when Hank touches his thigh again. He shifts his hips, frustrated when all Hank does is knead the muscle under his hand, the bite not quite enough.

"Settle," Hank says. "I'm not doing a thing until you're lying here like a limp noodle."

Connor wants to say that  limp is the last thing he's going to be. But he doesn't want Hank to stop, so he does his utmost to relax, even though parts of him are throbbing slightly in anticipation.

It's worth it though, to feel Hank slide his hand under the sheet just barely covering him up to tug it off.

He stays still. Very still. Hank hums and warms his hands, even though it's entirely unnecessary. "Connor?"

"Mhm?"

Hank is quiet for a moment. "I'm going to take care of you. Your job is to do nothing. Just relax. And feel. Okay?"

"Okay," Connor whispers. "Hank, I-"

"Are you thinking again?"

"No. I just - Listen, I don't expect you to -"

Hank hushes him, rubs his hip slowly. "I know you don't. I wouldn't have offered if I thought any different."

Is that what happened? Connor's having trouble focusing enough to remember. The guilt doesn't want to leave him, either. 

"Would it help at all," Hank says, smile in his voice, "if I told you we've been off the clock for the last fifteen minutes?"

Connor twitches. "Really?"

"Mm. You're my last client of the night. I get to lock up after everyone else has gone. It's just you and me. Off the clock."

Connor wants to know what that  means , exactly, but his words don't want to cooperate or form anything even resembling cohesive sentences. The only thing he wants is to tell Hank to move his hands again.

"See? Thought you might like that," Hank says, still soft. "I don't want anything from you." He starts rubbing his thigh again, slowly, kneading out the knots that are by now familiar. "I don't want you to return the favor. I don't want a tip. I just want you to feel nice. Taken care of, for once. Hm, Connor? That sound good to you?"

Connor would laugh, if the hand casually brushing his inner thigh wasn't currently driving him insane. This being new does nothing to change the fact that Hank knows his body, knows how to make him feel boneless. Or tense. Or both, somehow at the same time. 

It's like that now, because he does what he always does except with a lot less commitment to not overstepping any physical boundaries. So if his hands wander higher, if his touch is slow and deliberately sensual as he massages the fragrant oil into Connor's ass, he lets it be. Connor tries to relax, because as long as he lies still, Hank doesn't stop. 

It does, at some point, become rather uncomfortable - the combination of anticipation and Hank's thick fingers on the sensitive skin between his legs has him uncomfortably hard against the table. 

Hank tuts softly. "Lift up for me a little. Can't have you carrying any tension right now."

Connor's too lost in that fuzzy feeling again to process what Hank wants exactly - he just does as he's told, cheeks flooding with color when Hank slides a hand under his hips. 

Connor whines and bites his lip. Everything is suddenly zeroed in on the impossible heat of Hank's rough palm against him, the slickness of the massage oil between them, the way Hank says something in that low voice, something he can't hear over the white noise in his ears. He rolls his hips, the motion entirely involuntary, and Hank's grip around him tightens. Connor gets the impression that Hank is warning him to slow down, but he can't help doing it again, just to feel his hand, to curl into it. Hank chuckles next to his ear, pinches his hip. "Nice try. I'm just getting you comfortable, sweetheart."

"This is comfortable," Connor mumbles sleepily. It's true. Hank's cupping him almost gently, but with enough pressure to feel - good. Very good, actually. Now if he would just wrap his fingers properly around his cock-

But Hank doesn't. He just adjusts him carefully to ease the pressure of the table, doing something deft and clever with the sheet to add a layer of padding. It's not as good as his hand, but it's soft at least, and Connor sighs. He's not sure if it's from frustration, or relief. 

“You need to learn patience,” Hank says, slipping his hands out form underneath Connor. “The best things in life are the ones you have to wait for.”

“I’ve been patient,” Connor mutters. “I’m tired of waiting.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Hank’s voice is entirely unconcerned. 

“Hank.”

“The faster you relax,” he says, tracing the skin around Connor’s ankle, “The faster you get what you want.”

Connor’s heart is  definitely about to explode. And on the heels of the pleasure is something dangerously close to panic. “Okay. Just don’t stop touching me.”

Hank squeezes the back of his calf, then his knee. “Not a chance. I love touching you.”

Connor freezes. He has no idea how to answer that, although Hank doesn’t seem to be expecting a response.

“You’re so sensitive. Like right here. I brush my fingertips here and-”

Connor jerks with a sharp pant as Hank’s fingers skim the crease where Connor’s ass meets his thigh. The jolt it sends through him is immediate and intense, shooting straight south.

“See what I mean? I could do this all day.”

Connor is still momentarily beyond words. When Hank does it again, but this time employing the full use of his fingernails, Connor figures out why he’d placed the sheet like that. Grinding into it no longer hurts, which is nice. There is, however, the unfortunate side effect of not enough  pressure again. It’s wholly unsatisfying, even when Connor tries to repeat the movement to chase the sparks of that feeling. The angle isn’t quite right. It’s nowhere near the warmth of Hank’s hand. 

He needs that back, but instead of putting Connor out of his misery Hank is just teasing him. He keeps acting like there's going to be more, like he's finally going to take Connor up on what he's so freely offering, but instead he just runs his hands over his skin, repetitive and soothing, wherever there is no bruising to avoid. He unlocks the knots in his hips and thighs just as he always does, only with more attention to the places that make Connor's breathing hitch and turn unsteady. His inner thighs in particular, because nothing makes Connor quite so restless with need.

It feels like hours before he nudges Connor's legs slightly apart. And even then, he doesn't go straight to satisfaction.

He touches Connor's ass, squeezes it while muttering something appreciative, spreads the cheeks apart in a way that has Connor squirming, but then sighs and resumes the massage. And then again, taking great care. By the time Hank finally touches the skin behind his balls, Connor is precariously close to being a blubbering mess. He's panting, trying to invite more with every breath and gesture, and Hank just will. Not. Do it.

And then he does  that , and Connor moans helplessly. His hands are slick and hot and press against him hard enough to feel almost bruising, but in the same way his massages always are. It's so good, even though it's not nearly enough. Connor makes a noise he doesn't recognize and thrusts back against his hand, desperate. 

"Do I need to slow down again?" Hank asks, voice like honey, and Connor almost sobs.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snaps. Because Jesus, god, Hank's hands are so big, practiced and strong, and Connor needs him to never,  ever stop.

The pressure lightens just slightly. Almost enough to make Connor scream.

"You sure? You seem agitated."

"Hank," Connor manages fervently, "if you don't fuck me in the next five seconds I'm getting up, driving home, and fucking myself on the biggest dil-fffffuuuck."

Connor's not even sure what Hank is  doing . It doesn't feel legal, even though Hank's barely moving his hand, just pressing in again. Sparks just fly behind Connor's eyes. If this is what Hank meant by 'firm touch', he is not sure he's going to survive it. He can feel it in his stomach, squeezing like a vice. His cock is leaking onto the sheet, and Hank's not even inside of him, just massaging that place with the same unyielding grip he treats any stiffness he finds in Connor's limbs.

Connor grinds into the little damp spot again, whimpering, because if he doesn't get more - he might actually expire on the spot.

"Wish you could see yourself right now," Hank says. "You're so beautiful."

Beautiful is the last thing Connor feels, bruised up as he is, but he'll take the compliment if it means Hank using that hypnotic voice on him. He'd express as much, if he could formulate words at all, but the only sound his mouth wants to make is an  ah that sounds almost pained.

Hank doesn't let up, but he does use his other hand to pin Connor's hips down.

"Be still. It'll feel better," he rumbles. Hank doesn't believe him, but he doesn't have much choice - he feels too sore to put up a fight, and besides, he quickly learns it  does feel better, mostly because Hank increases the pressure. With the distraction of movement gone, there's nothing else to do focus on. Just the way Hank massages outwards, drags his thumb over Connor's hole, studiously ignoring his whimper. If he would just - just do that again, press inward, Connor might finally feel relief.

Hank doesn't. He just keeps massaging him there, like it's the same as anything else. Connor is rapidly turning into a needy mess, but it's still not  enough . He's on the verge of breaking into million pieces, either breaking down or exploding.

Then Hank slows down, teasing the edge of the tight ring of muscle, and bends low over Connor to kiss his shoulder. It's such a simple little thing. His mouth is soft, and his beard scratches, but the press of his lips feels like it leaves an imprint that continues being on fire even after he straightens up again.

"You're doing so well," he says. "So good for me."

Connor shivers. It doesn't go a long way towards relaxing him exactly, but if there's one thing he wants more than any part of Hank inside his ass right fucking now, it's for Hank to get something out of this too.

And if this is what it takes, well, that's what it takes. So he makes an effort. Hank must feel the exact moment Connor surrenders, because he makes another low, approving noise somewhere deep in his chest.

Connor sighs. He's warm all over, his face and his hands tingling, toes curling from what Hank is doing to him, but as he repeats the same movements-

It becomes easier to just lie there, taking what Hank is offering, occasionally trying to strangle the pathetic, needy sounds his throat is trying to make when it feels like Hank might finally breach him (which he never does). He's rock hard, but it's almost comfortable now. 

It's almost a natural extension of what they've been doing before, just more - everything. More intimate, and warmer, more arousing but also more relaxing because there's so much relief to Hank touching him like this, like he's always done.

He closes his eyes and drifts. Everything turns into a pleasant, warm buzz, and he finally sees what Hank meant by that relaxing he was talking about. There's something freeing about this. It's almost like meditation, but Connor's never successfully meditated in his life. This though... he could get used to. 

By the time Hank releases him for a moment to wipe his hands off on a clean towel, Connor is too blissed-out to move. In the second or two he's alone, the only awareness that feels acute is missing Hank's touch. He's too heavy to lift his head or his hips, his limbs loose. The only thing he can manage is a sleepy noise that might've been a question under different circumstances. 

Hank shushes him, then gently grabs the back of his neck, rubbing his hairline and the leaping pulse point at his throat. Connor's quite sure he never wants to move. He thinks maybe Hank is trying to put him to sleep just like this, without doing anything else tonight, and the thought is almost as tempting as it is unbearable.

And then Hank strokes down Connor's spine, between his legs, and presses a shockingly slick finger inside of him. Connor doesn't have the time to process it enough to clench up, or move in any way at all really. He just whines at the sudden intrusion, the stretch, the heat that curls through him and makes him  hurt with the need for more. Hank's fingers are thick. And  long . 

"Fuck," he rasps, barely recognizing his own voice.

Hank pauses. He doesn't pull away, but he goes very still. One hand gently rubs a circle into Connor's hip. "Alright, babe?"

Connor laughs wetly. "Yes. Yes. More."

Hank hmmms softly, presssing in a little. This time Connor can't help himself, he pushes back against him with a needy, pleading little sound.

Hank stills again. It's a warning; a warning to stay relaxed, but Connor can't take that anymore. Panting, he arches closer, hips stuttering in his attempt to take him deeper. It's almost enough, and the way the sheets under him drag over the flushed, sensitive skin of his cock has him indecisive over which he wants more. He shifts experimentally, slowly, trying to change the angle, the depth, anything. Fucks himself shallowly on Hank's unmoving hand. Hank growls straight out of his chest and pins him to the sheets, hand low on Connor's back. Connor moans.

"I don't think so," he says, soft and playful but with enough bite that Connor knows he's serious. "You're being so good. Can you be good a little while longer?"

There's a promise somewhere in there, and Connor nods fervently. Hank rubs his waist, carefully avoiding the bruises wrapping around his ribs. The touch is light enough to tickle, and has Connor's breathing going as unsteady as anything else.

"Hank, please. Please."

Hank curls his finger directly into Connor's prostate. His breath rushes out of him like he's been punched in the gut - and honestly, that's just how it feels, except being punched doesn't usually turn him into a pile of needy jelly.

"Beg all you want, baby," Hank soothes. Or maybe teases, Connor's not even sure. He can still hear the blood rushing in his ears. He's hard enough to cut glass, an when Hank does it  again , Connor sobs. Forces himself to stay still, to lie there and take it while Hank drags his finger out with agonizing slowness - then presses back in with two, even slower, acting as if Connor isn't panting roughly under him, like he's not about to come just from this.

He keeps his hips steady, takes his sweet time fucking Connor open. Every time Connor tries to clench, or move, he slows down further. Connor gets lost in trying to breathe, trying to remember to stay relaxed, trying - and failing - to tune out the slick sound of Hank exploring his body.

When he does remember though, it's worth it, because Hank's hands are still made of concentrated magic. And  inside him. It feel like it can't get any better, but it always does, because Hank is relentless, his hands are the perfect size, his voice is just the right pitch. When Connor whines from overstimulation he takes the time to ease up, to calm, and then to bring him to the brink again. 

Connor is past caring about the sounds leaving him. It's the only thing he's allowed to do, so he communicates his need freely in the feeble hope that Hank might finally,  finally give him everything he needs. Because what he needs is more, and harder, and preferably now. 

"Hank."

Hank does something with his fingers that makes his vision white out again, brings tears straight to his eyes. "Yes?"

But Connor doesn't want anything specific he can articulate. Just the taste of Hank's name on his own lips, so he says it again, just as breathless. 

There's a pensive silence, and Hank’s movements slow again, but become deeper, more intense, hit the frayed nerves inside Connor's body with pinpoint accuracy. Connor makes a rough little sound. He's close. So fucking close. He shivers, because he's almost in pain. 

If possible, Hank slows down even more. He's nearly still, save for the occasional twitch or press of his fingers, or the drag of them over Connor's aching prostate. Either way, the movements are sharp but  tiny . Every one of them a flutter that’s inexplicably driving him towards the edge - but none actually enough to tip him over it.

His breathing deepens. If he can just - concentrate. And feel nothing else. Just this, just Hank. Open and soft as he feels, it can't possibly take more than that.

"Perfect," Hank says. "Just like that, love. You're so good."

Connor can only twitch weakly around Hank's fingers in response. The pressure in him keeps building, even in stillness, little by little. The only thing he can hear is the ragged sound of his own breathing as he tries to find the right amount of tension, the right way to  feel . When he can't find it, he whines. The very vibration of the sound is enough to get him closer to the edge, he wants to sob with how close he feels to release, but if Hank won't  give it to him, he can't get there on his own. He can't even ask, because he feels too wrung-out. 

Hank, somehow, finds a way to press deeper. Curls over Connor, presses another kiss to his back, soft praise falling from his lips as he twists his fingers, spreading him open, sending something sharp and urgent lancing up his spine.

Connor cries out. Hank nips his shoulder. It's the sweet bite of that that sends Connor finally crashing down, his orgasm ripping from him  hard . Hank curses softly into his skin as Connor sobs and clenches around him, no longer able to keep himself from rocking his hips as he spills onto the sheet. And Hank decides this is the perfect time to dig in harder, find that bundle of nerves again and wrench every last drop of pleasure for him, dragging it out for what feels like forever, until Connor is lying, shivering and spent, in his ears a dull rush of rain. 

When his senses come back online one by one, Hank still has his fingers inside of him, gently pressing inward and making his toes curl. Connor mewls, overstimulated, and the sound quickly turns into a wet little cry. Hank hushes him, eases off his prostate, but doesn't withdraw. "One more?" he asks, an impish smile in his voice.

Connor can't move. Can't breathe properly, let alone do this again. The breaths shuddering out of him are hard and broken, like he's a racehorse pushed far past its limit.

"Hank," is the only thing he's capable of whining. Hank lowers his voice to that sweet, honeyed rumble. "Am I pushing you too hard, baby?" he asks, curling his fingers to make his point.

Connor doesn't know whether to flinch, or to rock back into it. Somehow he attempts both at once, cries out because it mostly just hurts. But it also feels a little bit like before, and when Hank goes do draw back, Connor clenches down around him and silently begs him to stay.

And Hank is good to him. Even gentler than before, less teasing and more focused on making Connor feel nice. Overwhelmed, but nice. It doesn't take as long when Hank isn't insistent on drawing it out. He croons praise into Connor's ear, let's him wiggle into or away from the touch as much as he wishes. So it doesn't take long at all for Connor to find that sharp spike again, to fall apart. 

Hank milks every last bit of his release from him, until Connor's vision is dark with navy starbursts and his body is so spent, so heavy, the only thing he can do is pant quietly and hope that Hank has mercy on him.

It takes a long time for awareness to creep into this glow. The first thing that hits him properly this time is that he's sore. Everywhere. Mostly it's a good soreness, but parts of him feel like a wrung-out, wet rag.

The second is that he's damp; a combination of oils, lubricant, sweat, and - other fluids. Including tears

He tries to wipe at his face, but he can't quite coordinate his movements. It doesn't matter. Hank is right there, suddenly running his fingers through Connor's hair, thumbing away any stray drops, then gently telling him to settle so he can go get a towel and clean him up. Connor couldn't move if he tried. There's a black void where any witticisms might have gone, or - anything else, for that matter.

Hank sits next to him, silently and efficiently cleaning up the mess they've made.

"Relax. Take a nap if you need."

Connor doesn't need a nap; just a few minutes to regroup, just to get his shit together, his feet under him, his back straight and made of bone again.

This proves to be far more difficult than it seemed. There's a lulling quality to Hank's hand at his nape. The next time he opens his eyes, he's -

Well, warm, mostly. And dry. There's a blanket around him, the sheets are clean. He's curled up on his side and there's a hand in his hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and another resting at the center of his chest. He blinks, wincing. His eyes feel dry, and as wrung out as the rest of him.

"Hank?" he croaks. His voice sounds wrecked.

"Right here. Took the liberty of getting you a little more comfortable." Hank tugs the sheet up over his aching shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

There's a soft uncertainty in his voice, and Connor's brow furrows. He struggles to sit up, fails; at least, until Hank wraps an arm around him and helps hold him upright, against his side.

He feels weak, and rubbery, tired, but also - still high off Hank's undivided attention. And maybe a little anxious, too, a part of him in a tight knot over all of it now that the arousal that had been building inside him for weeks has subsided into a distant yearning. A little vulnerable, worries creeping in.

At least, until Hank arm around him tightens. "Come here," Hank says, in that familiar, beautiful voice, and with every ounce of the warmth that's always in it.

Connor curls up close, and Hank tucks him carefully into an embrace, rubs up and down his back, pets his hair. Connor shivers and sinks into it. It takes Hank chuckling into his hair for Connor to realize he's completely limp and Hank is holding up most of his weight.

Not that he seems to mind. Connor can feel his heartbeat through his clothes and the thin sheet he's wrapped in. It's hard. And fast. There's something comforting about the thunder of it, although there's something comforting about all of Hank, so Connor supposes it shouldn't really surprise him.

"I'm feelin' good, Hank," he mumbles into his chest. "S'very nice."

Hank's shoulders shake. "Tired?"

Connor sighs. "No. Just don't want to move."

Hank noses into Connor's curls. "Why don't I drive you home?"

Connor's heart leaps into his throat. "Oh. I, uh-" He thinks about his apartment, barren and unwelcoming yet somehow in disarray, and flinches from the thought. 

"I don't want to pressure you," Hank says, pensive. "But I don't- I'd like to - I want you to be safe, and -"

Connor giggles. "It's alright. My place is a bit of a mess though."

Hank considers this for a moment. "I don't have to go in if you don't want me there. Or - we could go to my place instead. If you're not allergic to dogs, that is."

Connor's face floods with warmth. He thinks about the implications of going home with Hank after all of this, and they make him feel a bit like jelly all over again.

"I'd like that," he says. 

Hank squeezes him, still gentle. "Good."

Connor nuzzles into his chest. It's soft, hot, smells like sandalwood and sweat and cedar. "If you want," he says shyly, "I can take care of you, too."

Hank pulls back and cups his face. His smile is the sweetest thing. Connor's eyes drift half-shut again, because it's so wonderful for Hank to just hold him, just like this.

"I'm not done with you yet," Hank mutters, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But after? I'm all yours. Now, come on. Let's get some clothes on you so we can go."

Hank has to help him pull on his shirt and his pants, because Connor still feels sore and weak and almost falls over his own feet trying to tug on the jeans. But once that's done, he feels a little more human, and the two of them go out into the chill late night air. 

They take Connor's car, but Hank is the one who takes the keys, and frankly, Connor is more than alright with that. He sinks into the passenger's seat and dozes as the night flies past the window, and listens as Hank hums along to some song on the radio. It's not a long drive, and to Connor's delight, it would be an equally short drive from his own apartment.

Not that he's thinking that far ahead. Maybe this is a one-time thing. A fluke. Hank got horny, they're about to extend their little tryst into a one-night stand. Not unheard of, and Connor would certainly take it over nothing.

It's just, given how having just Hank's fingers inside him feels, he's not sure he'll ever be able to get off to anything else again.

It was worth it though, he thinks as him and Hank get out of the car. 

"It ain't much," he mutters as he unlocks the door and ushers Connor inside. "But it's- you know.” He gestures vaguely as they enter, awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. 

Connor smiles. Looks around. "It's perfect. It's so - homey."

"That's usually code for cluttered."

It is a little cluttered, but not in a tragically messy way. Everything just looks - lived in, unlike Connor's own apartment. There's signs of life in the books and magazines on the coffee table, in the warm uneven glow of the floor lights as Hank turns them on. It's in the smell of sandalwood and - dog, Connor thinks, just as an enormous St. Bernard pads out of the bedroom to greet them.

It's warm. The lights are warm, and the space just feels - so full of Hank.

"Do you want something to drink, or a bite to eat?" Hank asks. Connor shakes his head, heart thudding again. "Well - actually maybe some water."

Hank hmmms with a slight frown. He makes for the kitchen and digs around while Connor hovers nearby, then brings out two bottles and a plate.

"You should have something with sugar in it."

Connor's mouth twitches. "That so? You're planning on wearing me out?"

Hank quirks an eyebrow at him. "If I haven't already, clearly I haven't done my job right." He sets down a bottle of plain and sparkling water, some grape juice, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. He smiles, a little wryly. "I didn't think all that far ahead. I can have some real food for you here next time. In the meantime, this is all I've got."

Connor's heart trips over 'next time'. He picks up the glass. Pours himself a glass that's half-juice and half seltzer. He sips it carefully, leaning against the counter, then takes a small nibble out of one cookie. He blinks down at it, surprised. "It's good."

He takes a bigger bite. He's suddenly ravenous, although a minute ago he could've sworn up and down he wasn't hungry. Once he's done, Hank takes the glass and plate from his grip and sets them on the counter.

Connor suddenly had no idea what to do with himself. Mostly, he's just feeling chilly, a little bereft without Hank's presence at his side.

Ridiculous. He's being ridiculous. Hank's brought him back here for sex, cookies or not, so Connor has no damn reason to feel this confused. It's just - he's had a long day, and then not one but  two earth-shattering orgasms. Really, who can blame him for still being a little shaky on his feet? 

"Come on," Hank says, reaching out. "Let's get ourselves to the bedroom, hm?"

Connor steps forward tentatively. Stares, wide-eyed, when Hank takes his hand and brings it up to his lips to kiss Connor's knuckles.

Connor flushes pink. It feels like he's being courted, but… He presses his palm to Hank's cheek and scratches his coarse beard, studying to unravel what he feels should be obvious but is for some reason eluding him.

"Hank, what are we - I mean, what are we doing? I don't-"

Hank hums. "Take a wild guess, sweetheart."

Connor swallows hard. He doesn't want to guess. He's tired of guessing. "Hank-"

Hank tugs him closer, until they're standing chest to chest. Connor forgets what he'd been about to say. He's by no means small, but he feels like it this close to Hank. He's got a broad hand on Connor's lower back, the other curling into Connor's hair, and everywhere else Connor can feel the warmth of him; his broad chest, the swell of his gut, his arms, the hardness pressing into Connor's hip. Hank leans in, kisses his cheek. He lingers there, unmoving until Connor loses his patience and winds his arms around his neck in encouragement. He can feel Hank smile against his skin, shivers when he drags his lips to nuzzle into his neck.

"You smell so nice," Hank mumbles.

Connor exhales sharply. 

"Would you like to spend the night?"

Connor's brain scrambles frantically to remember if he left the stove on. It's weekend. He's off duty. He has no pets at home, no other obligations.

"Yes," he says, before Hank can interpret his pause as anything other than enthusiasm. Hank moves up Connor's throat and comes to a rest against the corner of his mouth. 

Connor's heart all but stops. Then tries to explode out of his chest, because they're both suddenly so still, but it would take the smallest little movement to -

"Bed," Hank says quietly. Connor's breath catches. Ordinary the word 'bed' would be a good one, but now -

"No," he mutters, wrapping his arms low around Hank's thick middle. "Too far."

Hank snorts softly, tries to pry himself away.

Connor doesn't give him an inch. Just latches on and attacks. The skin of his throat tastes clean and salty, but more importantly, Hank groans in a delicious way when Connor breathes against his neck and drags his teeth over his pulse.

"Bed," he repeats weakly. "I mean it, Connor."

Connor makes a frustrated noise. Tugs at Hank's shirt. He manages to sneak his hands underneath it to get at Hank's skin. He feels hot, almost feverish, and jumps when Connor's fingers dig into his bare back.

"You're relentless."

" I'm relentless?" Connor laughs, incredulous. Then he reaches for Hank's belt. 

"Nope," Hank says, deftly slipping away, backing up against the wall. "Sorry, honey. I told you, I have plans for you."

Connor licks his lips. "Do you want me on my knees, or on the counter?"

Hank chokes.

Connor looks around. "I suppose the floor would do too, but your dog-"

"That's it," Hank growls. He bends down, hugs Connor's middle - Connor hardly has the time to process what's happening, and then he's suddenly upside down.

An undignified sound leaves him. He clutches at Hank, scrambling for purchase, but Hank has him in a fireman's carry. Con to would be indignant, but one of Hank's arms is wedged between his legs as he carries him down the hall and presumably to the bedroom and - Connor wishes he could stay mad, but the friction is doing something fascinating to his body. So much so that he wraps around Hank, and when Hank tries to deposit him on the bed, they end up falling, tangled and together, albeit a little hard.

Connor yelps, and Hank freezes, catching him in a gentle hold. He's half on top of Connor, and breathing hard.

"You okay?" The concern in his voice is sweet, genuine.

Connor groans. "Yeah. Just need a moment. "

Hank smooths a large, callused hand up to his waist. It trails fire in its wake, and something even better, heavier. Connor's eyes slide shut.

"Your back?"

"Dandy. Hank, I want you naked."

Hank rubs a slow circle into his stomach, under his shirt. Connor is dumbfounded by the apparent stubbornness of his own dick in it's singular quest to get Hank to touch it, because it's stirring in a very interested way at every little touch. As if tonight hadn't happened. "Can you be patient a little longer?"

Connor almost screams. He settles instead for grabbing Hank's collar so he won't escape, and wrapping a leg around his hip.

He overshoots a little, because Hank makes a tiny, strangled noise and bows his head and grinds gently into him. Sparks fly behind Connor's eyes, and he curls his calf around Hank's leg to get closer. "Hank. I've been so - so fucking good. I want you."

"Fuck,” Hank breathes, touching his forehead to Connor's. "Connor-"

"I just want to  feel you, Hank. Please "

Hank groans. His breath touches Connor's lips. "You're gonna be the death of me. You ever hear the shit that comes out of your mouth? I'm old, Con."

Connor only sort-of hears his complaints. He tangles his hand into Hank's silver hair. It feels nice, silky between his fingers. Hank tilts into his touch. Makes a small, pleased noise Connor can almost feel in his chest. Connor tugs at his clothes again, very surreptitiously.

Hank rolls to his side. His legs are still tangled with Connor's. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you tonight."

"You can take care of me by fucking me into the mattress."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Don't take this the wrong way," Connor rasps, "but I kind of want you to  ruin me."

Hank laughs. God, but Connor loves his laugh. "Ruin, huh?"

"Yes," Connor says, exasperated. "Now."

Hank squeezes his hip. "You're a demanding little shit."

The fondness in his voice makes Connor warm from the inside out. Something twists in his chest. He reaches for Hank. There's no purpose he has in mind except to get closer, but the way Hank catches him - it's especially comfortable - or it would be with their clothes off, at least. It makes him stop for a moment, curled on his side and in Hank's arms as he is. 

He stares at Hank, and the soft -  something in his eyes. It's somewhere between worry and shyness and concern. And he'd never thought of Hank as the sort of person to get overly bashful, but now that he thinks about it - this is new to them both. Maybe what Hank needs is a little reassurance too.

He wiggles closer, and pets Hank's cheek. Watches his eyes flutter shut. With their faces this close, he can see every shadow and pore and wrinkle and spot, and it's all beautiful just the same. He's thought it before, but Hank has a gentle, noble sort of look about him. It's... reassuring.

"You know, when I first saw you, I absolutely flipped out."

Hank blinks at him. His brow furrows. "You did? Why?"

"The thought of you touching me all over for an hour. I didn't think I could do it without making an ass of myself. It's like - you ever have a fantasy, or a dream so vivid it feels real? That was you."

Hank's lips twitch. "You don't have to flatter me, Connor. I'm already in your bed."

Connor sighs. Tucks himself a little closer. "Don't know if you noticed the state you reduced me to earlier tonight, but I can assure you that wasn't flattery."

Hank rests a hand on his waist. "Round two?”

There's a sudden lump in Connor's throat. And his pants, but that's old news by now. "I want this to be mutual."

Hank stares at him. Then grabs Connor's hand by the wrist, drags it downward, places it between his own legs. Connor stops breathing. For that matter so does Hank. "Its mutual," Hank says, his voice half an octave lower. Maybe it's Connor's imagination, but it seems to crack a little.

More to the point though, he's got his hand on Hank, testing that hard length he'd been so intrigued by, feeling the heat and the weight of it. Even through the fabric of his pants it feels - Connor swallows hard - like a  lot to deal with. 

His breathing starts doing something funny again. He grinds the heel of his hand into the bulge experimentally, enjoys Hank's hiss and the way he curls over Connor and nips his neck. His teeth dig in harder when Connor tugs at his waistband, the sharpness sending pinpricks of heat spiraling outwards. Connor shudders, tries to wiggle closer, pops open the button and slides his hand deftly into Hank's pants.

They both groan quietly, nuzzling into each other. Connor tries to control his breathing, but it's difficult when he's tucked into Hank's neck, smelling his cologne and clean sweat, and he's got a handful of his heavy cock with only the thin fabric of the boxers separating them. It's so warm. A damp spot has formed on the front. He doesn't have much room to work with like this, the angle is awkward, and Hank is squeezing the hell out of him besides, but it's enough to give him a tentative stroke, enough to feel him twitch in Connor's hand.

He noses into Hank's hair. He smells of shampoo. He can tell why Hank was worried about hurting him, although he needn't have. Connor hasn't dated - or fucked - anyone for a long time, but he's planning on making up for that in sheer enthusiasm.

"Do you have any lube?" he breathes directly against Hank's skin. 

"Nightstand drawer," Hank manages. Then pushes his hips tentatively into Connor's grip, encouraging him, and Connor abruptly loses his train of thought. He fumbles for the nightstand no longer entirely remembering what it was he wanted. They get awkwardly tangled up. Hank rolls on top of him, presses him gently into the bed, but even that's enough to make Connor stiffen. Unfortunately not in a good way.

"Not on your back," Hank says quickly shifting away. "Fuck- Connor, why don't you lie down on your-"

"I want to see your face this time."

Hank stares at him so long that Connor wonders if that was the wrong thing to say. It's - kind of an intimate request. He's about to open his mouth and backtrack about it, but before he can say anything, Hank wraps around him and presses a warm, chaste kiss to his lips. 

It's uncanny, really, how quickly and completely the gesture makes Connor melt. His body is suddenly made of rubber, soft around Hank to try and conform to every one of his contours. He curls one leg and and his free arm around him, ignoring his back's shriek of protest. And Hank just keeps on kissing him, his mouth soft and pliant, the scratch of his beard warm, lips parting on a little groan when Connor tugs him closer. 

It's heavenly. It's everything Connor's wanted for the last few months, and he has no idea why they haven't done it sooner. 

They only break apart for a moment, breathless, so Hank can sit up and drag him into his lap. It takes the pressure off his aching back, which is nice, but also has the added side effect of planting Connor squarely on top of Hank's dick. He groans, and grinds down reflexively. There's too much fabric in the way, but the pressure between his legs still feels  good , and even better when Hank buries a hand in Connor's hair and pulls him down for a kiss that feels far less innocent and a lot more bruising. 

Connor makes a muffled little moan. Apparently the sound is all the encouragement Hank needs to angle Connor's head and roughly lick into his mouth.

If Hank wasn't holding him up, he'd have a puddle on his hands. He hand on Connor's hip and the one in his hair feel like the only thing keeping him vertical. It takes Connor getting lightheaded to get him to realize he needs to draw another breath. This time they're both panting quietly into the tiny space between them, lips damp, fingers curled into each others' hair. Hank is hard, the press of his erection like a brand against the inside of Connor’s thigh. He’s fairly sure he could come again just like this, but that's not good enough. He shifts up off Hank's lap, tugs his own shirt over his head, getting somewhat tangled in it because he doesn't feel entirely coordinated yet. Hank slides his hand under the edge to help it off. He also goes for Connor's pants, which turns out to be even more graceless an endeavor. It's a wonder Connor neither elbows nor knees either of them in the face.

It would've been worth it though, Connor thinks as Hank pushes the denim down his thighs, stroking skin as he goes. His hands are broad and rough, but light as he explores the parts of him newly exposed, as if he's seeing them for the first time. He holds Connor's waist, runs his hands up and down his back, squeezes his hips, trails fingers up his inner thighs. Connor's breath catches. "Will you take your clothes off for me?" Connor asks. Jumps when Hank rubs him through his boxer briefs. "You... don't have to. But I'd like to touch you, if I can."

Hank touches his lips to the scar on his collarbone. "Mhm. These first." He snaps at the elastic. "And then?" Connor asks, almost falling over himself as he wiggles out of his underwear.

"And then you'll get what you want," Hank says, helping him tug the thin cotton down his legs, then trailing his hands back up, first to rest on his hips, then high on his thighs. Connor is momentarily distracted though, because there's something oddly thrilling about straddling a still mostly-clothed Hank like this, his naked skin brushing against coarse denim and soft cotton. Shivering, he settles back down, closing his eyes and biting his lower lip. There's a scratchy sting to it, the sensitive parts of him easily overstimulated by the seams. A part of him aches to move into it, the other flinches, and the result is a tiny, not entirely controlled movement as Hank moves his hands to squeeze Connor's butt. It quickly becomes too much, and he stills in Hank's embrace, plastered to his chest, panting into his neck and petting his sides where he can reach.

Hank pulls his shirt over his head. Connor settles back down against his skin. Suddenly, he can't stand to be any further away. 

Hank's arms are warm though. Welcoming. It's like familiarity without familiarity; a particular brand of knowing. He strokes Connor's spine with the backs of his fingers, kisses his neck, his shoulder, takes the time to thoroughly taste his skin. The sense of urgency remains, but the  hurry does not, dissolving into a building warmth between them; one that Connor is very content to follow slowly down, at least until a few buttons get painfully in the way. 

He whines, and Hank gives in, finally takes his stupid pants off. Connor has to take a moment to breathe. With just Hank's boxers between them, it really feels like nothing at all. When he shifts just right their cocks are aligned, straining against each other, twitching when Connor rolls his hips forward. It's hot. Just a little damp. Hank bites his throat, and Connor's thighs tighten around his hips. 

With shaking hands, he reaches between them, presses his fingers to the wet spot of pre-cum on the cotton. It's Hank's, not his. When he reaches up to taste, he finds it salty, and bittersweet and very - Hank. 

Hank, groans. "Fuck, Connor."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Connor says. His throat is dry. But, importantly, Hank eagerly arches closer.

Soon the boxers are out of the way too. And they're sitting, skin to skin, heat on heat, basking in the warmth of their embrace. It's enough just to settle like this, to kiss with nothing between them at all. Hank supports him with an arm low around his back, and Connor cups his neck, strokes the soft skin of his throat with his thumbs, gently nipping his lower lip. He moves his hips tentatively. Hank makes a warm noise against his mouth; it builds and gusts out of him in a hot sigh when Connor repeats the motion, trying to spark friction between them.

Hank tugs him closer. Fumbles for a bottle of lube without breaking the kiss. Connor grabs it from him, impatient. He likes the feeling of Hank's quiet laugh like this. It's intimate and solely theirs, and profoundly lovely. Connor could listen to it forever. 

But it's even better when he feels it change into a harsh gasp as he deftly uncaps the bottle and slicks Hank up. He's not particularly quick about it. He wants to explore, and besides, Hank's cock feels amazing in his hand. Just the weight and the thickness of it is making his mouth water. 

Hank's response is better. Almost innocent, like he'd forgotten what it was to be touched like this. Connor could get used to doing this. He looks beautiful with his head tilted, eyes half-shut and muscles bunched with silent tension in an attempt to - keep still, maybe? There's a softness to his features, more pronounced in the dim light, but there's an edge too.

Connor is true to his word. He watches Hank's face as he strokes him, then shifts to grasp them both in hand. Hank's eyes glaze over when he realizes what Connor is doing. He bows his head and presses the top of it to Connor's collarbone so he can watch his hand move. And isn't that the hottest goddamn thing? Connor can feel the stutter of his breaths, the small movements, the flex of his muscles that he can't quite hold back, the silky bounce of his hair on his shoulder.

A curious, foggy sort of peace steals over him. He slows. It's so quiet in the house, Connor hears his heartbeat in his ears. The wet sound of his hand gliding over the both of them feels loud to him, as does the uneven rhythm of their breathing. He can feel every twitch of Hank's cock like this, against his own and against his hand. His movements falter when Hank grabs his ass and easily drags him forward. He has to wrap his arms around his neck to keep his balance. He briefly thinks about sitting back up, but this is even better. They're plastered chest to chest, Connor's chin resting on Hank's shoulder. Hank is cupping his butt gently to maneuver him over the straining length of his cock. 

It feels heavenly, and Connor follows his cues, the light pressure of his hands, just like dancing. Tilts his hips, trying to feel - more. He can feel Hank's heartbeat against his skin. 

When he kisses him again, that's more, too. His lips are damp, tongue hot and slick, the kiss immediately deep and searching and intimate. Connor's out of breath, thoroughly claimed, and he nudges himself against Hank suggestively, too preoccupied to ask for what he wants. Thankfully, they're finally mostly on the same page, because Hank groans into his mouth and grips him tighter, rubbing the small of his back, then dipping his hand lower to toy with his opening. 

Connor hisses. He's still sensitive from before, curiously soft, and Hank's touch - It's firm, but right now he rather needs it to be  hard .

He reaches back, shifting to get into a better position, trying to make himself accessible. He grabs Hank's wrist to guide his hand where he wants it. Not that he'll need it there for long. He's so close to ready. 

Having Hank inside of him feels somehow essential. His fingers - are good, so good. He knows where to press, how deep to go, he knows how to listen and feel for Connor's shudder when he hits the spot, carefully slicking up his passage. But Connor wants to be split in half with Hank's hands in his hair. So he mouths playfully at Hank's shoulder and reaches for his cock again, strokes it slowly, crying out when Hank's fingers roll that much deeper and harder into him. He lines it up with his hole, bites the skin under his teeth when Hank bucks reflexively up. There's not enough room, not alongside Hank's fingers, so Hank pulls his hand away. It leaves Connor feeling so empty he could cry.

He tries to push down, but Hank grabs his hips, hard enough to bruise. He's radiating heat, everywhere. They’re connected, hands holding each other firm, and the tip of Hank’s dick teasing unbearably at Connor’s entrance, prodding it.

"Nice and slow, baby."

Connor bites down on his lower lip to keep the whimper building in his chest from escaping, but Hank startles him by leaning in and licking his mouth. The noise he makes is small, muffled suddenly by Hank's searching mouth as Hank swallows his little sound. 

Connor is done waiting. He cups Hank's face, scratching his beard, and shifts his hips. He sinks lower, panting raggedly when it becomes apparent that Hank is going to feel bigger than he looks. He almost yelps when the head of him slips past the tight ring of muscle, popping into him with what feels like a hard tap directly inside of him. 

Hank holds him around the waist, keeping him steady, keeping him from going as fast as Connor would like. And he keeps muttering soft encouragement, talking about how good Connor is for him, how warm and needy and desperate for it. Connor nods furiously. 

His cheeks feel hot. He lets his own weight do most of the work. It's easy, the stretch hurts, but it's the kind of pain that's almost impossibly good. By the time he settles down fully, he feels drenched in sweat. Anchored, Hank's lips on his damp forehead, hands on his waist, stroking, pressing, the cock inside of him an inescapable weight and pressure. "You're so good, darling. Such a good boy."

Connor moans. Buries his face in Hank's collarbone. There's a little space between them now, but his own cock is still sandwiched and pressed against Hanks soft belly, leaking profusely. 

He bites Hank's skin. Overstimulated again. 

"You good, baby?" Hank asks, barely getting the words out.

"Literally never better."

Hank's hands finally,  finally move into his hair. Connor makes a sound that's maybe a sigh but also maybe sort of a sob. It's just so  much . Hank is so much. Physically, yes, but not only. There's just so much caring in him. So much softness and compassion wrapped around what feels like a solid steel edge of personality. Connor's not sure he's ever met anyone like him before.

"You're - ah - you're wonderful."

Hank looks up at him. An eyebrow inches up. "Am I?" he asks, quiet and silky. It's almost taunting, if not for the sensual edge as he rocks sharply into Connor's body.

Connor groans. Tilts back to make the angle that much deeper, better, taking Hank a little farther inside. He locks his legs around his waist. 

"You are," Connor mutters between kisses. He's enchanted by how it feels, to have Hank inside of him and his warm, scratchy kiss against his lips. He finds himself sinking into both. They're connected at both points and touching absolutely everywhere they can. Hank's hands drift between his hips, his waist, his pebbled nipples. And when Connor moves too slowly for him, he teases him mercilessly, finding the sensitive places on his skin, stroking them lightly until Connor gets restless and starts fucking himself harder on Hank's cock. 

Every downward thrust sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp it decidedly turns to pain lancing through Connor's entire core, and nothing's ever hurt quite this good in his life. 

It doesn't take long for him to feel taken apart at the seams. He whimpers, grinding down slowly, circling his hips, clenching around him, trying to feel more, feel every vein on Hank’s dick. 

Hank suddenly goes perfectly still. Panting, Connor pauses, looks up past the damp locks falling over his forehead, a question in his eyes.

Hank's little smirk makes something clench hard in his gut. "Didn't tell you you could stop," he growls, rubbing Connor's thigh. Connor laughs, completely breathless. Rolls his hips, this time trying to be deliberate about it, trying to squeeze around Hank harder. True to his challenge, he doesn't move, but Connor can  feel his breathing speed up, so he does it again, and again, moaning when the movement makes white-hot pleasure spark somewhere deep inside of him.

"You're - fuck - taking your sweet time," Hank pants against his neck. Presses a wet kiss to his pulse. 

Connor tilts his head for easier access, groans when he feels the sharp drag of Hank's teeth. "If you want this to be fast," he bites out, "you should throw me down on the mattress and -" he cuts off, because suddenly he's entirely lost in the exact sensation of Hank nosing behind his ear to find the delicate skin there, and teasing the tip of his cock with his fingers. 

"What was that?" Hank asks, his fingers doing something inexplicable and maddening that makes Connor want to pass out.

He cups the back of Hank's neck and squeezes sharply. Tries to say something, but he can't get a single sound out that isn't a needy whine. 

"I'm waiting, love," Hank says, low and seductive. "I should  what ?" He strokes Connor slowly, gripping him, giving him something to fuck into. Remains unmoving, holds on to him as he undoes himself trying to decide what he wants more - Hank's cock or his hand. 

Connor licks his lips. "Next time - ah, next time we do this, you're doing all the work."

Hank laughs. Connor stops breathing, because the sound goes through him like a shockwave. He rides the movement of it like a wave, and has a moment to feel satisfied at Hank's response. Then Hank growls into his neck, grabs his hips, and thrusts  hard as he drags Connor down. 

Connor doesn't even have the presence to balance himself, just muffles his shout in Hank's hair. Squeezes his eyes shut, because his vision is swimming too much. "Fuck. Hank. Do it again."

Hank does, this time dragging it out, somehow managing to press deeper, harder, the feeling entirely indescribable. Connor rocks into it, his movements stuttering when Hank's cock drags over his prostate. He feels stretched thin, bruised, but he wants this so much. "Hank," he sobs, because he's not sure he can take more of this anymore.

"Are you gonna come for me, Connor?"

"Yeah."

Hank wraps an arm around his waist, presses closer to him, rubs his back. "Good boy. Come on, then, Come here."

Connor tucks his face into Hank's neck. He's shocked by how suddenly and how powerfully release crashes into him, right as something inside of him just -loosens, accepts. He jerks in Hank's arms on a soft, strangled cry, but Hank's already crushing him to his chest, so all he can do is ride it out, moving with it. 

Hank kisses his name from Connor's lips as he spills between them, breaths hoarse, hips rocking into Hank in a last, desperate search for friction. He's still on the very nearly painful aftershocks of it when Hank curses, tightens his grip on a sharp inhale, and thrusts deeper. The groan that comes out of him is felt more than heard, and he squeezes Connor close, whispering a quiet, repeated 'fuck'. 

Connor can feel the hot pulse of his release, the way Hank stills, breaths turning harsh. He meets those final thrusts like his life depends on it. They're deep and primal and Connor loves them, especially when he feels Hank's cock twitch inside of him. Or when his fingers dig into Connor's hips. 

He reaches into Hank's hair, petting it, brushing it back from his face. Closes his eyes, just for a moment. 

Hank kisses his cheek. He wraps his arms around Connor and then tips them both down into the sheets without breaking apart, onto their sides. He drags Connor's leg over his hip, keeps them connected. Connor can't stand the half-inch of air between them and closes the distance in any way he can. 

He feels like there's something he's supposed to say, but words are eluding him. It's hard to think when he's this relaxed, and even harder to remember the reasons he used to think this was a bad idea. There's only this right now. The two of them wrapped around each other. Even with reality trickling in for the first time in hours, Connor feels at peace. 

He's sore, he'll be much worse tomorrow. There's going to be new bruises on him. And honestly, fuck knows what's going to happen. There's no guarantee Hank won't think this is just a fluke. None of it matters with Hank's softening cock still inside of him and his arms around Connor, or the way his breathing is so deep and long. His fingertips trace a light pattern into Connor's bare shoulder, but all he can do is bury his face in Hank's collar. It's warm. There's a hand in Connor's hair, and the rest of the world just bleeds away like it's nothing. 

Connor smiles.

Hank's hands roam, running down his back, his ribs, his legs. He touches Connor with uncommon care. Or maybe common, for him. But only for him.

"Sleep," he says. Connor makes a noise of protest. It dissolves into a sigh as Hank kneads the back of his neck with a gentle, experienced hand.

It shouldn't be this easy, Connor thinks just as he fades into unconsciousness. It's not allowed to feel this good.

~

Morning greets them with pink light, and an unusual chill in the air. It smells like winter, crisp leaves, even though autumn is just beginning. It's a good smell though, fresh and bracing.

Hank props himself up on his elbow, and stares at Connor's pale back. He's tangled in the white sheets, graceless in sleep, parts of him poking out from under the covers. As a result, Hank is treated to an enticing view, like he's there's just waiting to be unwrapped. Hank wants to pull the sheet aside and warm him with - well,  himself .

But Connor is likely very sore underneath all that sleep, and Hank doesn't want to wake him. And he's patient, he can wait, or at the very least he can be more helpful than dragging Connor out from under the blankets to satiate his own urge to see him and hold him. So instead, he grabs the edge of another blanket and drags it slowly over Connor to tuck around him, then lets his arm rest over Connor's waist. 

It feels like the only safe place to touch him. Those bruises still look painful, and Hank could've been gentler last night.

He stays like that a while, listening to the slow, deep sound of his breathing. Connor desperately needed the rest, by Hank's estimation he'll be out for at least another few hours. He doesn't mind waiting, he thinks. This is very nice. He could get used to it, actually. 

It's another half an hour before Sumo comes by to whine at the door. Hank sighs, presses a parting kiss to Connor's temple, lingers a little when Connor makes a sleepy little noise and tries to shift deeper into Hank's arms. Then he gets up, quiet as he can, and tiptoes out. 

He lets Sumo out into the back yard, opting to skip - or rather, postpone - their morning walk. He doesn't want Connor waking up to an empty house, and besides, he's fairly sure it's good form to make breakfast at least. Even if it's something nice and simple. He opts for waffles, and it's not long before the smell wafts through the whole house, familiar and comforting. He finds a bottle of maple syrup, some whipped cream, bemoans the lack of fruit in his life. Puts on coffee The pattern of it is familiar; he does this every day. Still, there's something about grabbing two plates. Two mugs. About hearing the very soft snores coming from the bedroom when he stays quiet enough. 

It makes Hank's heart twist inexplicably in his chest. He's not sure how Connor had wormed his way into his heart so completely. But every time he thinks about his light laugh, or the soft fringe of his eyelashes, or those curls on his head, or - anything else about him, really, his entire chest feels full of helium. And it's been a long time since he'd felt anything of the sort. A very long time. 

When he comes back to the bedroom, Connor is still fast asleep. He doesn't sit when Hank sits next to him, or when he sets the plate down on the nightstand. He does, however, groan quietly and tip into his touch when Hank runs his fingers gently through his mussed up hair. 

He resists the urge to climb on top of him, and settles for rubbing his exposed shoulder. "Morning, sweetheart. You hungry?"

Connor grunts softly and buries his face in his pillow. Hank's lips twitch. Figures he's not a morning person.

"Need help waking up?" he teases. Connor mumbles something completely unintelligible. Hank stamps down on the urge to laugh, then groans when Connor stretches like a kitten, trembling. Unbelievable.

"Mornin' Hank," he mumbles, burrowing into the sheets. Then his eyes snap open, and he blinks rapidly. Hank smiles at him. Connor just stares, trying to focus. "Did you - do I smell waffles?"

Hank's cheeks warm. "Sure. You like maple syrup?"

Connor nods. But he doesn't stop staring at Hank, like he's trying to puzzle something out. He's still sleep-soft. There's a pink crease on his cheek, from where it was pressed into the seam of his pillow. 

"You made waffles." It's not a question so much as a bewildered statement.

Hank shifts uneasily. "Too much? I can - leave you alone if you-"

"No!" Connor sits up. "No. I'm just..."

He trails off, looks around helplessly. When he searches and fails to find the words he needs, he reaches out. Hank tries to hand him the plate, and Connor waves him off. "No. No, you - you first. Come here."

Bemused, Hank sets the waffles down. Lets Connor tug him closer. Connor drags him in, maneuvers Hank back into bed, then leans himself into his side. Hank puts an arm around his shoulders.

"There," he breathes. "My back hurts. You're going to be my pillow."

Hank's grin steals back onto his face. He hands Connor his breakfast. "I can't believe you made waffles," Connor says around his first bite. "Holy shit, Hank."

"Good?"

He sighs, soft and pleased. "Yes. But next time, I'm doing the nice things for  you ."

Hank's heart skips a beat over mentions of a next time, as it always does. He holds Connor, and they eat breakfast together, sipping coffee. The dawn is quiet and chilly so it's easy to curl up side by side and warm each other, and pretend it's not the first time, and hope it's not the last. 

It should be such a simple question, but isn't. They should talk about it, and Hank should be the one to bring it up, but he's so rusty. He doesn't want to scare Connor off. For all he knows, Connor isn't interested in anything more than casual, and while Hank would take it over nothing - it's not all he wants. Far from it. 

When Connor's finished eating, he sits up to put his plate on the nightstand, and winces visibly with a soft huff. Hank reaches out to steady him. "You alright, baby?"

Connor gives him and odd look. "Yes."

Hank tries not think about Connor falling off a  roof again. The mental image sends a sharp pang through his chest. "If you're sore, I can get you something cool for your back."

Connor's lips twitch. "It's not really my back that's sore, Hank."

And Hank would feel guilty, except he's abruptly full of  very good memories, and a completely primal satisfaction at having imprinted himself in some way upon Connor’s body. 

He can't bring himself to regret it. Not when he thinks about how perfectly Connor falls apart, how good it had felt to press close to him, how limp he'd been in Hank's arms afterward.

Connor shoves him playfully. "Don't look so smug. Anyone would feel sore after that."

Hank smirks. "Want me to kiss it and make it better?"

Connor stiffens slightly. Hanks worried he's said something wrong, but then he tilts his head to get a better look at Connor's face and finds him looking - bewildered, pupils blown, color rising to his cheeks. And Hank had meant it as sort of a joke, but now that Connor is thinking about it, so is he. He can picture it clear as day - Connor lying back on the bed, his hands fisted in the sheets, head tipped back, legs draped over Hank's shoulders and locking him close. His throat goes a little dry at the thought. 

He swallows hard. His patience, there one moment, feels entirely gone the next. "Right. Are you finished eating?"

Connor blinks, as if snapping out of a trance. "I - yes.”

"We need to have a talk."

Connor gives him a concerned look. "We do?"

"Yes," Hank says, lowering his lips to Connor's naked shoulder. Mostly he just wants to taste his skin again. There's something comforting about kissing any part of him; he's warm, and responds easily with a relaxed breath and fingers that curl loosely into Hank's hair. 

"So talk," Connor urges. There's a breathless note to his voice, muted but undeniably there. Hank wraps his arms around his waist from behind, presses his lips to his neck, inhaling deeply.

"Last night was not peak professionalism on my part," he admits. 

"Thank God," Connor mutters.

Hank pinches his side. "I'm serious. I shouldn't have crossed-"

"Hank. No lines were crossed." Then his mouth twitches. "Well. Not ones I didn't want crossed, anyway."

Hank rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. This is not the ideal start."

Connor tips his head back against Hank's shoulder and shoots him a soft, yet somehow scathing look. "I don't want an ideal start. I just - want one with you."

Hank blinks down at him. Draws back to look at him better, trying to puzzle something out. "Really?"

Connor sighs. "Yes, Hank. Really."

A giddy bubble floats into Hank's chest. "So this is okay?" he asks, running his fingers through Connor's hair. "You're sure?"

"Mhm. It was okay last night, and it's okay now. I wasn't kidding when I said I've wanted you for a long time, alright?" Connor says quietly. "You make me feel..." He trails off. Hank waits, and he waits so long he starts to think Connor won't finish the thought. But then he sighs, like he's tipped over the edge of having made some decision. "I don't know the words for it. It's just - good. You said I should have someone, and - I always just picture you."

Hank's hand in his hair tightens. "Always?"

Connor smiles ruefully. "Basically since we met." He doesn't wait for Hank to answer him, just twists in his embrace and presses his mouth to Hank's, warm and tasting sweetly of maple. Hank hums, thoughts scattering abruptly. 

They kiss, and it's different from the fervent, desperate kisses from last night. Those had been fueled by arousal, made sharp by desire. This just feels languid, like they're luxuriating in each others' company. Hank has an arm around Connor, who relaxes into him. 

He feels a surge of affection so strong it runs through him like a current. It's fierce and protective and full of concern when he remembers to be mindful of Connor's bruises. He breaks away for a moment, tries to say something about getting some ice if needed -

Connor is having none of it. He sighs against Hanks lips, nuzzles against him, stroking Hank's face like he's touching something immensely valuable. So Hank just clings to him, and lets himself fall when Connor pushes him down onto the bed, back against the pillows. He's not sure what he's expecting, but it's not for Connor to suddenly pin his wrists over his head. He flexes, blinking, surprised - although, he supposes he shouldn't be - by his strength.

Connor smiles at him, sly, like a fox. "I can manhandle people too, you know."

"Oh?" is just about the only thing he's capable of choking out.

"Mhm," Connor purrs, bending low to kiss him again, still evidently amused. "I'm gonna get you back for last night."

"Now?" Hank wheezes, swimming when Connor releases his wrists to slide a hand under his shirt. 

Connor pretends to think about it. "No. I'd rather keep you in suspense. Right now, I just want to do this." He punctuates his point by tugging Hank's shirt up - Hank takes it off and tosses it aside, and then sighs when Connor lies down half on top of him, skin against skin. 

He's incredibly grateful it's their day off. 

It means nothing is hounding them into moving just yet; they can relax, just like this. Their first morning together. Hopefully the first of many. They get to hold each other, lulled in a bubble of mutual warmth. Hank's never really paid attention quite like this before, but this time he can say with absolute certainty that he fucking loves having Connor's weight sprawled mostly on top of him. He's heavy, and smells like clean linens and soap and warm skin. 

They take their time before getting out of bed for a second time. It really does feel like there's no rush whatsoever. Not with Connor's ear pressed to his chest, cheek squished.

"You're so goddamn sweet.”

Connor Harrumphs, shifts. Then wiggles down to lick Hank's nipple. 

"No, you,” he says with an amused groan. It's silly and playful and mostly has Hank feeling like a million dollars. As long as he's never asked to let go, he's good. Very good. 

He hugs Connor tight to his chest. "You're a menace, you know that?

"Mhm."

"Unbelievable."

"If you say so."

"Will you stay another night?"

And Connor laughs again, and not for the first time, Hank decides it's his favorite sound. 

"Yeah," he says, quiet and satisfied, the smile stealing into his voice. "I'll stay."

They spend the rest of the morning together, in bed, doing absolutely nothing. It's wonderful. Hank has his arms full of Connor's beautiful self, and Connor just keeps  touching him. Like he can't get enough. At first the attention is almost discomfiting, but it's not long before Hank relaxes and lets the fingers drifting over his bare skin soothe him.

In the early afternoon, they take Sumo for his walk. To Hank's delight, they fall hard and fast in love. Connor overflows with warm praise whenever Sumo so much as looks at him, and Sumo in turn seems to wag his entire body at his enthusiasm. It becomes almost a feedback loop, and Hank grins as he watches them together, another piece of something important settling into place. 

They play fetch together in the park, Sumo delighted at the attention, Hank's heart full of ease and contentment. When they head back, he wraps his arm around Connor's waist, and they walk arm in arm. They spend of the rest of the day being lazy, watching terrible movies at home. They're cuddled up on the couch well into the evening, the contact between them easy and natural. When Connor succumbs to exhaustion and soreness, he leans his head on Hank's shoulder and dozes. 

He doesn't sleep long, jerks awake with a small start. Looks briefly disoriented. But even then, Hank is full of some combination of sadness and relief, because when he curls Connor closer to his chest, he comes easily. Relaxes again, breaths slowing. 

Hank plays with his hair. He's glad to be here now. Glad to be the one who gets to hold him.

~

Connor doesn't go home that night, or the night after that. It's too early for this; or it should be, anyway - but they both have too much trouble parting ways, even for a while. Making up for lost time, maybe. 

They shower together, and then Hank makes good on his teasing. Connor's still too bruised to be on his back though, so Hank just pushes him facedown into the sheets, kisses his way down his spine, and then delves between his perfect ass cheeks. 

Connor hangs on to the pillow for dear life, moans like he's never been eaten out. Hank, on the other hand, is enjoying himself immensely. Connor is sweet and responsive. Hank can feel the tremors going through him, the clench of his muscles, the low sounds he's trying not to make. They spur him on. Send a low thrill of satisfaction through to his bones. 

It doesn't take Hank long to reduce Connor to a whining mess. Hank burns with how much he loves this, how much he loves Connor's surrender. He always starts out restrained, he thinks.

It's always been like this. He likes to grip his iron control, but when he trusts-

When he trusts, it's another matter altogether. There's something deeply, deeply fulfilling about feeling him whimper and shudder under Hank's relentless tongue. About hearing his breathing stutter out of him unevenly as he curls his leg up for better access. 

Hank wants to completely spoil him. So he kisses and licks and nibbles like he means it, lost in the warmth of him, until Connor twitches under him and comes with a hoarse shout, rocking into the hand Hank had strategically placed under his hips for this exact reason. 

Before he gets a chance to come down from it, Hank undoes his belt, curls over him, and sinks into his blissfully relaxed, slick ass in one lazy thrust. 

Connor moans loudly when he bottoms out. Hank wraps an arm around him, gets as close as he can without putting to much weight on Connor's back, and mouths at his neck as he slowly, easily chases his own pleasure. He's not in a hurry this time, and there's a particular kind of bliss to taking Connor after he's climaxed. He's perfectly soft and willing, and makes the sweetest sounds of half-pleasure, half-pain. When Hank asks if he's okay - just to be sure, he whimpers softly and begs Hank not to stop.

When he senses that Hank is getting close, he reaches around to grab the back of his head and pull him down. "Keep going," he says, breathless. "You're so good, Hank. Need - need you so much."

Hank bites the nape of his neck, because it's about all the communication he's capable of. Connor groans and clenches so tightly around him that Hank sees white, the rest of his coordination leaving him altogether. 

His orgasm takes him completely by surprise. He pants sharply into Connor's hair, buried to the hilt inside of him, intent on never ever leaving, his cock pulsing and painting Connor’s insides with cum, filling him, leaking out around the base of Hank’s dick. 

Connor moves under him with a self-satisfied noise, milking him dry, all but purring when Hank peppers messy, wet kisses on his neck and shoulder.

"Fuck," Hank whispers. Then he tries to shift, because he's forgotten himself and gone half-limp on top of Connor, pressing him into the bed. Connor makes a noise of denial, bites Hank's arm where he's using it as a pillow.

"Stay. Feels so nice."

So Hank obediently relaxes. Kisses his ear. "Let's do this every day," Connor mumbles a little while later, when they're lying tangled under the sheets, only half-contemplating dinner.

Hank tightens his grip on him. Laughs. "My heart might explode."

"Don't worry." Connor yawns. "I'll take good care of it."

He pats the center of Hank's chest in a playful facsimile of reassurance. Hank's not sure what being  actually reassured says about him. Even less sure that it actually matters. All he knows is that for the first time in a long time he feels - happy, light. Giddy, almost. 

The feeling lasts even well into the next day, when a reluctant Connor sullenly announces that he has to go home to change and get ready for work. He's miserable at the prospect of desk duty, but he promises to text Hank a little later when he's on break. 

Hank sighs in relief. They're both reluctant to talk about where to go from here. Hank knows he's feeling a lot of emotions very quickly. This doesn't bother him, exactly - the newness of their relationship is only relative. He's known Connor for a good long while now, and had been nursing feelings - towards him for a significant portion of that time. But he doesn't want to scare him off, either, or come off as overbearing, or intense, or worst of all - inadvertently do something to jeopardize his well-being and sense of comfort. So he silently makes a few arrangements, and hopes that Connor will approve.

He spends a disturbing percentage of his day fantasizing about holding him again. If there ever was a fool who was lovestruck...

He shakes the thought from his head. Not because it's not true, but because it's still so soon. But it itches at him anyway. The budding tendrils of something warm and new, but something he could see growing into a great, wild, green garden. He just needs more patience. More restraint.

When Connor comes back to him the next night, he immediately thinks 'to hell with restraint.'

Restraint is for people who have both time and patience on their side, and Hank - well, he's not getting any younger, and even if he was, he's fresh out of patience. He's done pretending he's strong enough not to care this much this fast. He's wasted half his life not caring. 

Connor is visibly stiff and tired when he walks in through the front door, but he still smiles that sweet, vulnerable smile he tends to give Hank when he needs something but doesn't want to ask for it. Or doesn't know how.

Hank pushes him along to the kitchen. He sits him down at the table, but instead of sitting down across for him, he stands behind his chair and tries to knead some of the tension from his shoulders.

Connor bows his head with a little groan. "How do you always know?"

Hank hums. "The way you carry yourself."

Connor hrrmphs. "Been paying attention, have you?"

Hank brushes his hair back, shifts. "Of course I have."

Connor tips his head back to look up at him. His mouth curves prettily into a hesitant half-smile.

Hank kisses his forehead. "You want some food?"

The smile widens. "You buttering me up?"

Hank snorts softly. "Always."

"Mm. Maybe something with carbohydrates then. And caffeine."

Hank ruffles his hair. "Why don't I make dinner, then?"

Connor rolls one shoulder with a wince. "Ah, are you sure? I don't want to make you work-"

Hank squeezes the back of his neck gently. "It's not work. I want to."

Connor twitches. "I'd like to help."

"Okay. It'll go faster that way. "

Color rises softly to his cheeks. "And then..."

Hank chuckles. "Why don't we cross that bridge when we get to it."

Connor huffs. Tilts his head so his cheek rests against the back of Hank's hand. Hank takes the hint, moves to cup his jaw, to tuck stray strands of hair behind his ear. He can feel the faint scratch of stubble under his palm when Connor leans into it.

"Were you ever married?"

Hank's briefly thrown off by the sudden question. He clears his throat. "Yes. We split up - God, years ago now. Close to a decade."

"Hm."

"What?"

Connor suddenly flushes bright pink. "Nothing. Just thinking about - what it'd be like, you know. I mean - not like  that just-"

Hank gives him a sharp stare. "Just what?"

Connor coughs quietly. Attempts, semi-successfully, to cover his visible embarrassment with a wink. "Oh. You know. Must be nice to come home to your magic hands every day."

Hank continues combing his fingers through Connor's hair. He thinks carefully about what he wants to say. "I wanted to talk to you about that, actually."

"You did?"

"Mhm. I'd really like to date you, Connor."

Connor twists to look at him, eyes dark, skin warm. He tilts his head. "I'd like that too. I thought it was rather obvious."

Hank looks down. "Maybe. Doesn't hurt to be sure." He swallows tightly, because this part - he's never been very good at talking about his feelings. Acting on them, yes, but verbalizing them was another matter altogether.

He sits down, dragging a chair up to sit next to Connor. Their knees are almost touching, and he reaches for Connor's hand, covers it with his and squeezes. "Listen, I - I want us to move at our own pace. Take it easy, and, you know, be comfortable. But - I feel a lot for you, and I don't want to pretend that this is casual for me."

Connor's back straightens. "Oh."

"I'm not going to push you into anything you don't want," Hank amends quickly, before he can get ahead of himself. "I know this is... a lot. That said, I think I should refer you to an old friend for your massage therapy needs form now on."

Connor's shoulders sag slightly. "Ah. Yes, I - I see."

Hank grasps his forearm and smiles lightly. "I think it's something we both enjoy. I don't want you paying me for it. If you want me to keep taking care of you that way, I will, but I wanted you to have an out, too." His mouth twitches. "And maybe the occasional session without distractions."

Connor pouts. "I like distractions."

Hank can't quite help himself. He leans in, gives Connor a whiskery kiss. "Oh, I've gathered," he mumbles against his lips. "Seems I like them too."

For a little while they get lost in this, forget they'd been planning anything at all. Hank sighs when Connor buries his slender fingers in his hair and deepens the kiss in that slow, curious way of his. He wants to drag him into his lap, but then Connor breaks away with a sharp little breath, and giggles quietly into the warm air between them. He cups Hank's cheeks, hands warm.

"Let's stay in. Order a pizza or something. Cuddle on the couch all night."

Hank blinks. "Really?"

Connor gives him a wicked little smile. "Mostly."

But under his bravado and the bright grin there's a weight to his shoulders, like he's awfully tired and a part of him is fighting to stay awake, the shadows under his eyes telling. Cuddling on the couch suddenly seems like a really good idea. 

They spend that evening together, in a particularly pleasant, soft space close to sleep. Hank loves how heavy Connor's head gets when he leans it on his shoulder, one arm around Hank's middle. The quiet puffs of his breath. His heartbeat where Hank can feel it against his own. 

They spend a lot of evenings together over the next weeks - which quickly turn to months. Not every night is one they have time to share; Connor is hard at work once he recovers, and for that matter, so is Hank - but every time they part hurts a little bit. It's a mixed kind of hurt, bad because Hank misses him a little more every day, but good because it makes the relief of seeing him all the better, and the moments they're together feel like... like an oasis, almost.

Before they know it, it's been six months. Hank's not sure when he'd fallen in love, exactly; only that he is. He's not sure when it happened. Maybe the first time he'd caught a stupid cold and Connor had come over to fuss over him and feed him until he was better. Maybe when they talked about family, and Connor had - looked so wistful, and so concerned when Hank talked about his ex, and his - his Cole, a conversation that ends with them holding each other very tightly, and Connor sleeping sprawled on top of Hank after having wrapped him in the thickest blanket in the house. Maybe when he first saw the empty apartment Connor lived in, the one that looked hardly used, like something out of a furniture magazine, and the shy, dejected look on his face. And the smile that blossomed on it when Hank reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers. 

He's not sure it matters. By the time he figures out he'd move heaven and earth for Connor's sake, it's far too late to do anything about it. Not that he would. Loving him feels  good , even on the days Connor comes to him so tired he's on the verge of exhausted tears. 

The nights Connor sleeps sprawled on top of him after a long day at work are maybe his favorite. He likes feeling his weight, his breaths, the way he seeks out Hank's warmth even in sleep. Although he's partial to the nights he stirs in the middle of the night too. Mostly because more often than not, Connor wakes up needy and warm with sleep, soft with silent invitation. He likes it when, half-asleep himself, Hank tugs down his pajama bottoms and ruts against him. When they rock together so slowly they're hardly moving, just feeling. They usually fall right back asleep after, but sometimes Hank stays awake, his fingers drifting through Connor's hair, trying to soothe away the last vestiges of tension. Wondering how Connor had become so essential so quickly, and why it still feels exhilarating. 

One morning, it occurs to him that Connor had spent a full week and a half at his place, and neither of them had really  noticed . 

Hank rolls over and wraps an arm around him and finds him simply  there as he had the mornings before, and nothing had ever felt quite this right. 

He presses a kiss to his bare shoulder, inhaling the familiar, warm scent of his skin. Connor stirs, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath as Hank nudges the sheets aside so he can drag Connor a little closer to his chest. What a difference a little cotton can make. Connor settles so easily against him. Hank could do this forever. Wants to. Will.

He kisses Connor's neck, sighs, closes his eyes. "You should move in," he muses, still too close to sleep to choose his words carefully. "I want to wake up like this every day."

Connor, who a moment ago was dozing peacefully and so relaxed he was drooling onto the pillow, suddenly sits bolt upright. He looks down at Hank, blinking, his cheek creased, hair an absolute mess. He's got pink marks all over his skin. Mostly from Hank's teeth. 

He doesn't say anything. Hank grabs his wrist and tries to tug him down. "Come back," he whines. "I was warm."

Connor settles back down slowly, still staring. It's not until Hank maneuvers him back into his warm grip that he asks, "D'you mean that?"

Hank squeezes him. He nuzzles into his hair, strokes his side with his thumb where his hand rests below his ribs. "Yeah."

Connor shivers. "Sometimes," he says, "I'm still not sure you're real."

Hank yawns, the last tendrils of sleep letting him go. He rubs his face against Connor's neck. "Real," Hank grumbles. "And all yours, you know? Just - I love you a whole lot."

Connor's breath catches.

He stays quiet for a good while, but Hank gives him his time. He's learned a lot about the rhythm of Connor's thought process. It's not that hard to follow; a waltz, through and through. He knows he's won when Connor turns, curls into him, tucks his face under Hank's chin. Then laughs, light and restrained.

"What's so funny?"

"I was doing a checklist of what I'd need to go back for. It occurred to me that - I probably have more stuff here than at my place."

Hank kisses him, slow and reassuring as he can. There's something he doesn't fully know how to say, but something he wants to get across anyway. "We'll go shopping tomorrow. Maybe get you some things to make you feel all at home."

Connor sighs. "I already do."

Hank's lips twitch. "More at home then. Some potted plants, maybe. Extra hangers. Your own nightstand. A dresser for all your dild-"

Connor smacks his hand over Hank's mouth. His eyes are sparkling with something warm and bright. "That's enough of that. I don't need any of it."

Hank purses his lips to kiss Connor's palm. Connor draws in a quiet breath and drops it, licks the seam of Hank's mouth in gentle apology.

"I need it," Hank explains. "I want to feel you here. Feel like I've made room for you, properly. Like you're - in my space. In my life."

Connor goes quiet.

"I want to wake up next to you. And see your clothes hanging next to mine when I get ready in the morning, and trip over the shoes you've left somewhere stupid, and - see your books on the shelves, and fight over the music we listen to in the evening. I want all of it, Connor. And it's okay if - if it takes some adjustment, if you're not used to that, but -"

"My place never felt like home," Connor says quietly. "I think things will be different here." He looks up with a small, soft smile. "I like being here."

The thought that Connor spent years living somewhere he didn't like being - that he went years coming back to a place that didn't feel like home - squeezes sharply at Hank's heart. If he has his way, Connor's never going to feel like that again. Not ever. 

They doze a little, idly, enjoying the moment, the contact. As promised, the next day they make a trip of picking up Connor's things from home and whatever he needs from the store.

Slowly but surely, Connor seems to - unwind. Unravel into all his parts, scattered throughout. He's far too neat to leave his shoes anywhere to trip over, but Hank thinks he can see him physically exhale, shed a tiny bit of tension. His cabinets are suddenly full of fifty different varieties of tea. There's little succulents on every shelf where there were none before. 

A couple of months later, they buy a massive glass tank. Connor's still busy, but he has the space now, and he has Hank. He fills the tank with so many colorful species of fish Hank loses track of the names or precise quantities. There's scuttling shrimp, bottom feeders, fish with mesmerizing, glittering scales that move gracefully through the water, ones with long and flowing fins. He takes good care of them. They thrive, just as everything around him seems to.

One night it's Hank who's sitting on the couch with a sore shoulder. Connor warms his muscles with a gentle backrub. He uses the gel Hank sometimes gives him for soreness, kneads out the worst of it, then wraps around him from behind and buries his nose in Hank's hair. They fall asleep like that, spooning, cuddled together under a heavy blanket. Connor's hands rest low on his belly, his hips tucked neatly flush against Hank's ass. 

Hank's never felt more taken care of. The profound contentment in his heart cements.

He stirs, takes Connor's hand, just to hold it. Squeezes his fingers, and imagines a ring there. 

It's a good thought. Turns even better when Connor shifts restlessly, waking up on a sharp breath that might have been the beginnings of a nightmare, and immediately presses even closer.

"M'right here," Hank mumbles, lacing their fingers together.

"I know," Connor yawns. He rubs his cheek against Hank's back, between his shoulders, and takes a long, deep breath. Right before he falls back asleep, he whispers a sleepy 'I love you.'

And if Hank's eyes are suddenly a little wet, it' only because he's so damn happy. 

  



End file.
